Tristan's Slave
by Leraika
Summary: A very unlucky university student is sent to another world by a sadistic god. She just wants to quietly live in peace... in a Roman military outpost! Rated for adult themes, including pederasty and slavery. Don't like, don't read.
1. Chapter 1

**This appeared in my head after a much sleep-deprived period of utter, unmitigated homework-induced hell.  
I have no excuses. It's pure self-indulgence. But if you're curious about what goes on in my deeply troubled mind, then look no further.  
I've even compiled a playlist for this *gasp!* to keep me in the right mood. It's been very fun to write… probably shows… **

**Warnings:**** If you're not into 'author insertions' (after a fashion) or 'girl-goes-back-in-time' scenarios, then stop reading NOW. You have been warned. Don't flame; I gave you fair warning.  
Also includes infrequent (but undiluted) swearing and adult themes. **

**Disclaimers: ****Don't own anything herein except 'me' and the plot. Otherwise I'd have satisfied the fangirls' desires for some sort of knight-orientated prequel. Maybe even as a TV Series… I'd have enjoyed the casting sessions too…**

* * *

So here's the set up: The evil, extremely sadistic god of Cloud-Cuckoo-Land exploded into my life a few months ago and decreed that I would be transported into my favourite books and films at random, in a C.S. Lewis style time-warp/wormhole scenario. He and his mates would then watch me flounder about trying to learn how to survive and generally cocking things up royally. When I'm there, I am forcibly crippled with a convenient episode of amnesia as to where I am and who the characters are, as well as a profound absence of clothes.

In return for such a humiliating start in my new life, I am compensated in being given the ability to speak whatever language I hear (very convenient) and I am also impossible to permanently kill (amazingly inconvenient when you consider the logistics). However, I don't know what would happen if I got a really shitty deal where I'm torn to shreds or dismembered – surprisingly, I didn't want to find out either. Apparently, the 'never permanently dead' thing stemmed from my being somehow anchored to my own universe and reality. This also means I don't age at all. Try explaining that one to your fellow humans.

The reason this unique suffering is visited upon me (of all people) is because I'm one of those incredibly rare people with a mind shaped like the universe (it turns out the universe is shaped like a _brain_) which means that it wouldn't explode when transported between the overlapping universes.

Oh bittersweet irony…

The surreal conversation ran thus:

"_So… my meta-physical mind is one of the rare few in all of creation in the shape of a brain, which just happens to be the physical shape of the universe; and this somehow qualifies me as being capable of moving between the universes, space and time?" _

"_Correct." _

"_Well that's… convenient I suppose. Especially since I happen to have a Fan-Fiction account and assignments to escape from…" _

"_This was prophesied long ago – as foretold by the Elders." _

"_Okay, well, what happened to the other experiments?" I asked, eyes hooded with suspicion. _

_The god shuffled, his belly wobbling. "They… the failures, they…" _

"_Spit it out," _

"_They turned into Justin Bieber, Twilight, and High School Musical fans._" _The god jiggled in anxiety under the weight of my stare. _

"_And I'm your lab rat? Why are you even doing this?" _

"_We want to see what will happen," _

"_Since I clearly don't have a choice in the matter I'd just like to warn you that if you screw this up, I swear I will track you down and torture you to death before ending my own hellish existence via a black hole."_

_The god gulped audibly. _

However, we were both very lucky on that occasion and next thing I knew I was cavorting around Narnia with a sword too heavy to swing, a knife too blunt to stab someone with, and four prissy monarchs who said things like "Jolly good show!" to each other and were impossibly uptight. I avoided them like the plague and the fact I ended up rather fancying the dark-haired one had _nothing_ to do with it.

This second time, I was hunched over my laptop as usual, reading a journal article for my essay when the tell-tale thunderclap announced the arrival of the God of Cloud-Cukcooland. He was a squat fellow with green skin and big, round amber eyes. Otherwise he resembled an incredibly fat and short Jack Nicholson in a purple robe.

"Hear me, mortal!" he boomed nasally in the voice of Andy Hamilton, as he appeared on my bed. I didn't really react; considering how the muses regularly sabotage my working habits – this wasn't anything to write home about. I finished the sentence I was copying and then turned in my chair to look at him.

"Hi," I said frostily. "What do you want, a review of my little trip?"

"No, no – we were watching. Good performance," he said, bouncing up and down on the bed – I heard the springs groan alarmingly in protest. This horrible little creature had been responsible for sending me to Narnia (of all places!) last year and I hadn't enjoyed it very much at all. One of the drawbacks of this deal was that I would essentially remain an unchanging constant until this douchebag god had decided I could go back to my own world.

Later, when we were sharing a case of beer and a pizza, I tried to tell him that his look was a terrible cliché, but he didn't really seem to care. I suppose when you're a god you can just hurt people who annoy you with impunity. I then tried to plead with him to let me know where I was headed. I tried to at least be allowed to take underwear. The bastard was having none of it. All I would know was where I was from and the generalities of the deal I had with the god.

I stripped (because last time I never got my favourite jeans returned to me after they were lost in transit) and reverentially laid my watch on the bedside table before turning to face the leering god.

"Ready," I said. And next thing I knew, it was dark and all I could hear was the sound of rushing water and air around me.

* * *

Waking up in a forest in the pouring rain was a less than stellar start to this new life. Last time I had materialised in a snowdrift – and when you're oh-so-naked it's a real shock to the system; this was a slightly better situation. My hair plastered itself to my skull and back, falling into my eyes. Usually, it was my only vanity – long, black, strong and straight, it never split but successfully resisted all my attempts to curl, perm, or tie it back. Mostly I just left it alone for fear of enraging it.

Despite its dark curtain, I looked about. Judging by the colour of the leaves and bone-chilling wind rattling through me, I surmised it to be early autumn in a temperate climate. The smell of the air was totally unpolluted – which meant a metropolis was too much to hope for. It was still very much day time, but I knew I had to find shelter from this rain.

I looked about – there wasn't much I could do except start walking. Maybe if I was really lucky I'd come across a cave or a road.

Fortune is a mean-spirited bitch who loves no one (except maybe bankers and oligarchs). I had been walking for an eternity through the forest – there was no end to it. I hadn't even found anything to wear. This was truly wild land. Once, I heard wolves howling in the distance – but they were very far off so I didn't worry too much. But it did tell me that I would have to spend the night in a tree or face the possibility of being eaten in my sleep. I soldiered on until I found a stream where I stopped to fill my achingly hollow stomach with water. As I crouched on the bank, I wondered if the stream to a settlement. At this point I really didn't care so long as I was out of this rain. As I was preparing to wade through the stream, I heard a noise.

It was far off, but instantly recognisable: a horse's scream, rising and falling like a sick trumpet. It was one of the worst sounds I'd ever heard. Then came the screams of men and the high-pitched ring of metal striking metal. More screams.

I knew it was a battle, and one that involved horses and – more importantly – sharpened metal. I was a puny twenty-one year old student from England, in my birthday suit, without a prayer. Walking into a battle to ask for some clothes wasn't smart. So I sat down again by the stream and waited for the battle to end. I might be discovered in the aftermath, but it was slightly less risky than meeting them when their blood was up.

Unlike the movies, which make it seem like battles last all of five minutes – they're actually long, torturous, and very, very messy. This one was no exception. The clashes of metal eventually died down and the screaming took on a different edge. Clearly the victors were performing the coup de grace upon their enemies. I didn't want to hear the screams of dying men… but I had little choice. If I blocked my ears then I wouldn't hear what else might be sneaking up on me. But if things were less immediately chaotic, I reasoned it was time to set off. So I hobbled across the stream and in doing so, fell over after cutting my foot on a sharp rock. Soaking wet, utterly frozen and bleeding, I crawled onto the bank.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…" I growled through chattering teeth. This was not fun. The god of CCL was going to be faced with a lawsuit after this was all over.

I limped on – worried that the cut on my foot would get infected, but knowing full well there was nothing I could do for it. Then I heard whoops and yells before people suddenly flooded the forest in front of me. I could tell where they were because they were all painted blue. More surprising was the fact they weren't wearing a lot of clothes – weren't these lunatics freezing? Nevertheless, I threw myself into the undergrowth. Being raped was not on the 'to do' list. Looting dead bodies was. After all, dead bodies weren't inclined to try anything. The blue people walked past me, watchful despite their victory – perhaps they were the raiding party and their enemies had been the natives? I pushed myself deeper into the leaf litter, holding my breath. Eventually they were all gone. The forest was quiet. I stood, brushed the leaves off and checked my foot. Still bleeding, it was deep, jagged and ached something terrible. But I had no time to stop and mourn – the battlefield may be discovered soon and I wanted to be away from it with as much as I could carry.

When I finally reached the edge of the treeline, I hesitated and looked about. Seeing no one and hearing only the rain and birdsong, I edged onto the open ground.

The battlefield looked much the same as previous ones. Dead men and horses lay about the blood-stained ground. By the look of the armour, I was inclined to say the losing side had been a Roman Several men had been decapitated, but I couldn't see any heads. Had the blue people collected them? I wasn't sure, but it really didn't matter – I couldn't bury these men, couldn't even say the right prayers over their bodies. A sort of despair welled up in me – it was all meaningless really, but it was also in humans' nature to fight and kill. So I ignored my personal feelings on the matter and set about the bleak task of salvaging what I could.

But what first caught my attention was the horse struggling and thrashing in the mud. I hobbled over to it, making gentle cooing noises. I'm an experienced horse-person, being infinitely more interested in equines than boys as a child; I knew what to do. The horse didn't calm down, but I knew it had noticed me and was listening to me despite its panic. It was a beautiful blue roan, powerful, fine and tangled in its expensive-looking saddle. I frowned and moved towards the horse's head. Never approach a thrashing horse by way of the hooves, that's just a stupid idea. So I knelt by the horse's head and stroked its neck. I needed it to be calmer if I was to free it. The horse took some time to calm though – and in the mean time I'd silently christened it Fizzy. Don't ask me why, I'm crap at naming animals. One of my cats at home is called Porridge.

Finally Fizzy was calm enough for me to inspect the damage, although he was very highly strung. I stood behind him and leaned over to look at the damage – his foot was caught up in a broken and twisted strap of leather. I had no idea how he'd managed to get himself into such a mess, but every time Fizzy kicked against the improvised snare, it tightened around his ankle and also put pressure on his back.

"How uncomfortable," I murmured, patting Fizzy's flank as I wondered what to do. The easiest thing would be to cut it, so I looked for a knife. Most of the weapons had gone, so it took some time. But I eventually found a small dagger in a man's boot – praise the Powers That Be for small blessings. I also grabbed a discarded and surprisingly clean cloak and wrapped it about my body under my arms like a towel. Fizzy whickered as I walked back to him and damn, that horse knew how to push my buttons. I loved it when horses called to me in greeting. I smiled at him, even though it was a wasted gesture on a horse.

Cutting Fizzy free took a long time – the leather was tough and well worn, but the horse was smart and didn't struggle too much. Finally he was free and the first thing he did was scramble to his feet and try to shake the saddle free. It slipped round his belly to hang underneath and Fizzy looked very surprised at this new turn of events. I stepped forward, smiling and put out a hand. The horse pushed his nose against my fingers and sighed wetly.

So cute. "I bet all the girls love you, charmer," I said fondly, scratching his ears. Fizzy leaned into the touch, eager for a bit of fuss. But a gust of wind reminded me I had to keep moving. I unbuckled the remains of the saddle from Fizzy and tossed it aside. Fizzy's bridle was still intact, except for the snapped reins, but tying them together again was no hassle. I then tied them around Fizzy's neck loosely so he didn't tangle himself up again and looked around, thinking.

Now that the horse was free I needed real clothes. I wandered through the dead men, looking for the smallest I could find. I eventually came across the body of a young man. He was one of the Blue People – scarcely more than a teenager really. I would have contemplated the horror of it all if I hadn't been nearing hypothermia. So instead I crouched over him, pushed his eyes shut because something about rain hitting lifeless eyes freaked me out, and started to undo the belt about his waist. Needless to say he wasn't wearing underwear – _no time to be embarrassed, girl_, I told myself sternly. Wrestling clothes off dead men is a near-impossible task. It took me forever to tug the trousers off. From what I could tell they were made out of finely-woven wool – nice. They were also wet and too big but that didn't matter – I was wearing clothes. Next I threw off the cloak and grabbed a sash of cloth I'd found, wrung the water out of it, and wrapped it firmly around my chest. Nature and genetics had gone bankrupt before they could hand out feminine endowments, clearly thinking that everyone wanted to look like an under-fed teenage boy, but still, at least it made me _feel _feminine, even if I really had no breasts whatsoever. Unfortunately, acquiring a tunic took even longer than the damn trousers and Fizzy even wandered over to see what I was up to. Eventually, I managed to pull it off. The man had died from an arrow to the throat so there was a lot of blood around the collar and shoulders, but I had little choice.

After more looting, I scavenged another knife, some sort of dried meat (I ate a bit immediately and it tasted horrid) and several bundles of a very dry sort of biscuit made from oats, and flints for fire; half-a-dozen serviceable arrows (but no bow), another belt and a broken spearhead which I could probably use as another knife. Maybe even make another spear if I had to. I tied the arrows together with the spearhead and flints, then wrapped them in a strip of the cloak to make an improvised bundle. I threaded the second belt through this and made a backpack. The first belt was holding up my trousers. I cleaned my cut foot on the untainted wet grass as best I could, then wrapped more strips of material around it.

Shoes were not going to happen – these men's feet were all at least double my shoe-size. But I'd decided to ride Fizzy – I wouldn't need shoes. I needed at least another cloak for shelter – so I looked about again. I noticed there were two men tangled together in what must have been a very sticky final match. I pulled and pushed the Blue Man's corpse off the other and then as I reached forward to check the 'normal' one for anything useful, I screamed, causing Fizzy to flinch.

The man was alive. Barely, but his skin was warm to the touch and his chest rose and fell.

"Right… oh crap… shit, shit… calm down, calm down…" I stammered, sitting back on my haunches and thinking hard.

Shock gave way to practicality. This man needed help. True, I had just been looting his fallen comrades and enemies, but I hadn't defiled their corpses. Just taken stuff. He could have been my intended enemy in this universe, but I didn't care. He did look rather fierce though – wild dark hair fell across his face but failed to obscure the slightly raised tattoos on his angular cheekbones. He was clean-shaven and looked peaceful in his unconsciousness.

My first aid was very rusty, but I knew I had to check for head injuries first. I ran my fingers through his hair, feeling along his skull for any lumps or wounds… his head was alright save for a large superficial bump – probably the reason he was unconscious. Next, I felt the vertebrae of his neck – all were okay. The inspection continued, hampered by infinite layers of leather and cloth. Finally I found the injuries: a large, deep slash to his thigh, a long gash in his side and a graze along his shoulder. The rest were superficial.

I'd need lots of cloth now…

So I salvaged what I could from the other bodies, thoroughly checking that they were all dead this time. Then I went back to the man. I had to get him out of this rain – even into the trees. There was shelter there, and the wolves wouldn't be so interested in a meal that fought back. Fizzy took lots of coaxing, but eventually, I got him to lie down on a bit of ground I'd cleared of bodies. _What a well-trained horse_, I thought. Then I grabbed the man under the shoulders and hauled him up. He was heavy and slumped against me, his head lolling back and bashing my jaw before resting on my shoulder. I took a moment to avoid dropping the man. That hurt.

This guy didn't deserve me as his nurse. I'd probably end up killing him. He groaned as I jostled his injuries.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, taking a moment to pause. I was tired, cold, my foot hurt too, and I am not even close to being described as physically strong. Most of my heaving of dead bodies had involved inelegant grunting, shoving and rolling.

After a titanic struggle, I finally managed to haul the guy onto Fizzy's withers. Fizzy didn't like it, but I could see he'd been trained to do this because he stood up, with me steadying the man thrown over his back. I tossed the cloaks and cut up tunics over the man, trying to keep the rain off him. Then grabbed the rest of the things and led Fizzy to the trees. After more toil and swearing, I then made several trips back to the battlefield to grab more materials, including the man's sword which had been trapped between him and the Blue man in their final confrontation. I found several waterskins and a sort of gourd. Fizzy stood close to the man as I made trips to the stream for water.

I was beginning to feel like myself again. Albeit a version of myself who was tired, cold, stressed and frightened. But I knew what to do… sort of. I had to make a shelter, I already had water, I needed a fire. But at least I was making progress.

When I got back, the rain had eased off and was almost done in harassing my efforts. The man still hadn't woken up; even when I'd cut my hand and sworn very loudly when making the tent. I'd tied some leather straps from Fizzy's deceased saddle and strung them between two trees at about waist height. Using cloaks hanging over this, I'd made an impromptu shelter. It was easier than attempting a tipi with the spear shafts, which I used instead to hold the sides of the tent out, preventing the cloaks and saddle blankets from sagging. I crawled into the tent and checked on the man. His breathing was regular and even, I felt his pulse, which was also steady. He must be cold, his hands were freezing.

I fought with the fire for what felt like an age, before finally persuading wet wood to burn over wet hair and twigs. Yes, I cut off some of my hair to facilitate this man's survival. _He'd better be very bloody grateful,_ I thought crossly as the acrid smoke stung my nose and eyes.

So I had to wrestle a man out of his clothes again… this was becoming a bad habit. But this time it took a lot longer than previous long efforts, since the man was alive and injured. By early evening, I had managed to strip him to his underwear. The tent's draughts had been combated as best they could, and the man was lying on several pieces of clothing.

It was then that I got a good look at the man. He was very attractive, and had several tattoos on his chest and shoulders as well. The greenish-blue swirl on his shoulder had been mangled by the stab wound, but I didn't think he'd mind. Life was preferable to a ruined tattoo, surely.

I set to work carefully cleaning the wounds. It was easier that he was unconscious – I could be objective and not think about how awkward the situation was. I was also spared any conversation. Bandaging the wounds took time, but I was proud of the final result. The deep wounds on his thigh and side were the most problematic – neither were immediately life-threatening, but I was terrified of infection and had no real way to prevent it.

Fizzy snorted outside – it was a worried noise. I threw a couple of the still slightly damp cloaks over the man and then stuck my head out the tent.

"Fizz?" I asked. It's stupid, I know, talking to animals like they're people. But it gave me comfort. Especially when I was afraid the man would die next to me in the night. I crawled out and stood next to the horse. Fizz flicked an ear at me, but was staring down at the battlefield, quivering and hyper-alert.

Wolves and birds were scavenging the corpses. I felt a little sick. Would they come after Fizzy? Would they smell the man in the tent? I sighed. The ground was still damp, but the firewood I'd gathered was drying by the fire and I felt I could make another fire on the other side of the camp.

After checking on the man again, hanging the remaining clothes and cloaks on branches to dry, and hugging Fizzy around the neck for comfort, I settled down to keep watch with the one intact spear at hand.

Nothing happened that night. One of the wolves trotted over to the camp to investigate, but when I hissed and threw stones at it, it went back to the feast on the battlefield. Fizzy had been terrified, but I'd tied him to a tree. If he'd bolted, the wolves would have been more likely to chase him. And I couldn't lose the horse – he was essential to getting us out of here alive.

Around dawn I crawled into the tent and checked the man. I'd been making checks all night, but he hadn't woken. The colour had returned to his face, and he was warmer, but still not as warm as I'd like. I threw back the tent covers, put more wood on the fires and then lay down next to the man, burrowing under the covers to lie next to him. Maybe shared body warmth would help. And I was exhausted. I fell asleep with my face pressed against his uninjured shoulder. Fizzy woke me a few hours later, nudging me like a puppy with his nose. I rolled over, groaning.

"Fizz…" I moaned. "Go 'way…"

I was nudged again. I felt awful and pushed myself up into a sitting position, knocking my forehead against one of the poles. The sun was out and so were the fires. I groaned again and looked around, taking stock. The man was _still _asleep! This was remarkably unfair, despite his grievous injuries.

"You bastard," I growled. Then crawled out of the tent and walked to one of the waterskins, wetting my hands and running them over my face. A little more awake but no less grumpy, I fetched more water and decided to do a little laundry – the collar of my tunic had dried and the blood made the fabric stiff and uncomfortable. Similarly my breeches were stiff with mud.

I brought back the water, leaving a waterskin next to the man in case he woke up, and grabbed his blood-stained clothes from the untidy pile I'd thrown them into last night. Then back to the stream. Washing was a freezing affair, but woke me up. I stripped and washed the clothes – scrubbing the various substances out of them with difficulty. Then, with no other option, I wrung them out as best I could and walked back to camp naked. It was a risk, but I wanted the clothes to dry a little more.

When I got back, I pulled on the cold, wet clothes and nearly sobbed at the awful clamminess. Rolling up my sodden sleeves, I hung the man's clothes on branches to dry and checked the ones that I'd put out the previous night. They weren't dry, but were considerably less wet. I decided to tear them apart and make them into more bandages for the man's wounds.

Speaking of which…

I walked over to him and stared down at him. He was actually much younger than I thought… probably my age, or a little older. He needed to wake up. I had to get him to drink something at least. I knelt down and touched his cheek.

"Hey," I said, loudly but gently. No response. _"Hey,_" I said with a little more force, patting his cheek gently. Still nothing. Did I have to really slap him?

I squatted back on my haunches and frowned at him. Eventually, I grabbed the waterskin and sprinkled water on his forehead while talking loudly in a nice tone.

"Please wake up, please… it's the morning – I think – look, _please_ wake up," I patted his cheek again. Finally his breathing hitched and deepened the way it does when people wake up. The long-lashed eyes fluttered and opened slightly. I was amazed to see they were a deep, deep green. They focused on me immediately and were unbelievably hostile.

* * *

**Dun-dun-DUN! Well, how will this **_**mysterious **_**(*cough-Tristan-cough*) chap react to me? Find out in Chapter 2!  
PS: Reviews will greatly improve my mood, and talents as a writer. ^_^ Love you all! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, even I don't understand the technicalities of how the author's fic includes other POVs. Maybe… they just appeared on her laptop when she got back?  
Anyway… let's not question it, but read and find out what further suffering is in store for her! **

**Warnings: ****Swearing, violence… nothing special. **

**Disclaimer: ****Don't own… TT_TT**

* * *

TRISTAN: 

Tristan would never admit to panicking when he first woke up in a lot of pain with a stranger leaning over him. He knew instantly that he was in danger – out in the open, injured, and with a stranger leaning over him… he sat up, ignoring the agony in his side and leg.

"Stop!" she cried, "You'll hurt yourself!"

He ignored her and was almost fully upright when her hand shot out and checked him in the chest. It was then that Tristan realised he wasn't wearing very much. What had happened?

"Who are you?" he growled, glaring up at her – he first needed to establish if she was an immediate threat.

"Calm down," she said, everything about her was steady and seemingly controlled. Her impossibly clear grey eyes were just a little too much like his hawk's gaze. They saw more than they ought to.

He took stock of his surroundings: it turned out that he was in a forest under a really shitty excuse for a tent; nearly naked, grievously wounded with an unknown and frankly bizarre girl caring for him. But he needed to know who she was, so he repeated the question.

"Who are you?" He said.

"Who are _you_?" she shot back, clearly just as confused about who he was. This was surprising – Tristan was used to being feared and respected automatically. He'd practically encouraged it.

"Tristan," he said, using the word as an implicit threat. The girl didn't so much as blink; had she truly no understanding of just who she was angering? If he had more strength, he'd have slapped her since clearly she was impudent as well as ignorant. But she simply took her hand off his chest and leaned back slightly.

"I am Natalya," she said, picking up the waterskin and holding it out to him. "Drink; you've been asleep since I found you." The name sounded utterly alien to him – maybe Latin or Greek, but certainly not one he'd heard before. Along with her attitude problem which seemed to be at least as bad as Vanora's – she was a strange girl altogether.

How long had he been unconscious? Were the others looking for him yet? There was no sign of the Roman patrol he'd been accompanying either. "When was that?" He asked, not touching the waterskin. Who knew what she'd put in it.

"Yesterday," she said and dropped the waterskin by his elbow, looking away. She seemed to be thinking about something else.

A breeze chilled Tristan's skin. "Where are my things?" he asked.

"I washed your clothes of blood, they're drying." She said, still not looking at him. She was looking in the direction of the clearing, as if waiting for something.

"Tagiytei?"

Her grey eyes flicked back to him at that. "What?"

"My horse," he said. Had he made it? Where was he?

"What colour was your horse?" she asked. Tristan noticed the roan tied to a tree on the other side of the camp. It was Kay's horse, Sarakos. Oh gods, had Kay been with them?

"Dappled grey," he said.

The girl shook her head, "I haven't seen any dappled horse."

"Since I'm the only one, I presume all the others are dead?" Tristan said, wearily preparing himself for the worst.

She nodded. "The wolves arrived last night, I watched over you rather than them."

Tristan resisted the urge to close his eyes and merely grunted dispassionately. "How good of you," he said sarcastically. "Did you see any other men like me?"

"No."

"Are you sure? He would have been a big man with red hair and a dark cloak."

"I'm sure; I scoured that entire place at least three times." She said, and now there was a hint of annoyance in her voice. Tristan thought about this. Had Kay escaped on Tagiytei?

The girl stood, and as she walked away Tristan noted she was wearing men's clothes – they were clearly too big for her skinny frame and were wet. Had she gotten soaked while washing his clothes? Or had she washed them too? The outsized tunic hung loosely over trousers that were also clearly too big for her, and they only served to make her look even more like a skinny boy. What he also noted was that she was wandering around barefoot – the right foot was bandaged and she favoured it slightly.

Tristan picked up the waterskin and uncapped it. After a cautious inspection, it turned out to be water after all and he drank while pondering the likelihood of a remarkably good-willed (if surly) soul rescuing him in the middle of nowhere, the water amplified the hollow feeling in his gut.

"Is there any food?" he asked.

"Not very much," the girl mumbled from behind her long hair as she stroked Sarakos' arching neck. "How far is it to civilisation?"

"Only a day's ride," Tristan said. She clearly wasn't familiar with this place – which only made the mystery more profound. Had she been dropped from the sky like one of Arthur's angels?

"Then we can set off as soon as you're ready," she said, rummaging in the makeshift bundles. She found the food and took it to him.

While he ate, Tristan pondered the ramifications of travelling with this girl: what if she was some sort of spy? By guiding her to the fort would he betray his brothers in arms? He resolved to kill her if she proved him right.

* * *

I didn't know how to interact with this man – he was so intense. So wild. I decided to flee the scene and refill the waterskins.

"Natalya," it sounded exotic when he said it. I stopped and turned to look at him.

"Can I have my clothes back?" he asked. I nodded, fetched them and then went to the stream, taking Fizzy with me. While I was re-bandaging my foot on the bank Fizzy snorted at me, misting my hair and face with second hand water.

"Oh yuck!" I yelped. The horse snorted again and then wandered off to graze. I looked at him speculatively; I knew he could carry Tristan and I simultaneously, albeit slowly. But would we evade the Blue People if they came back?

To answer at least part of that question, I faintly heard raised voices from deeper in the forest. The Blue People.

Shit and double shit.

"Fizzy!" I hissed, leaping to my feet. The horse rightly ignored me. I darted over to him, snatching up the reins. "Come on!" I tugged him back to the camp, moving as quickly and quietly as I dared.

"Tristan, we have to go now!" I said in an urgent undertone. Tristan had managed to wriggle into his breeches, but was still bare-chested. He looked surprised. "I think it's the Blue People," I explained, stuffing the bandages and fire-flints into my pack. I left the tent. If the fort was only a day away we wouldn't need it.

"Woads?" Tristan looked stone-faced again. He struggled to stand and I rushed over, helping him to his feet.

"Is that what they're called?"

"It's what we call them," Tristan muttered. I handed him his tunic, packing the rest. There was no time. No time at all.

"My sword…" Tristan began. I pointed to where it was sitting on the packs.

"We need to go," I reiterated. In an effort to stay awake the previous night, I had made a harness of sorts so Fizzy could carry our packs. It was essentially the butchered remains of his saddle blanket and several leather straps which I had tinkered with until they didn't hurt or irritate the horse. Now, I threw it on Fizzy and started to attach the essentials. Tristan limped over to help, and I noticed he'd picked up his sword.

"We're in no position to fight," I said, tugging at the tough leather scabbard. "We have to run or we'll end up like your friends!"

Tristan looked like he might hit me but I stood my ground. For a start I didn't want to be killed, even if I could come back. It would also make for awkward conversation if they tried to chop my head off when I reanimated.

"But we won't get far enough," he said. I shook my head.

"For the moment they don't know we're here. But the more we argue the more time they have to catch us – so get on the horse right now or so help me I will leave you here to your desired fate!" I growled. Tristan seemed to see sense. He handed me the sword and I strapped it to the harness. I then turned to him to see he was examining the harness I'd made, his expression inscrutable.

"You call him… Fizzy?" he said hesitantly.

They probably didn't have carbonated drinks, so I just shrugged. "Why, what's his real name?"

"Sarakos," the horse's ears pricked. Yeah, that was his name.

"Fine, Sarakos," I amended. It sounded cold and hard – not like the goofy animal who'd nibbled at my hair last night. Then I swung myself up onto his back and walked him over to a stump so Tristan could get on the horse as well.

I nudged the horse as close to the stump as possible and then looked at Tristan.

"How do you want to do this?" I asked, holding out a hand.

* * *

TRISTAN:

Tristan didn't even bother to reply. There was no time to think about the pain or caution, so he just grabbed the girl's forearm, placed his other on Sarakos' back and swung himself up onto the horse behind her. If she hadn't been bracing herself, Tristan would have definitely pulled her off the horse.

There was a moment's awkward silence as Sarakos walked to the clearing.

"Ready for a gallop?"

Tristan reached around her narrow waist and threaded the fingers of one hand into Sarakos' mane and the other arm wrapped around her stomach. "Like we have a choice," he said by her ear, steeling himself for the pain of a bareback gallop.

"Okay," she said. There was a ring of iron in her tone – Tristan knew she meant to survive and her genuine terror at the thought of the Woads' arrival would have been hard to fake. But if she wasn't a spy, then how on earth did she come to be here? More questions and no answers. He'd have to start voicing them.

As soon as they were clear of the trees, Natalya urged Sarakos into a canter. Tristan grunted in pain and hugged her to him, pain ripping through his side and leg at the skipping motion of the horse. Sarakos seemed to sense the urgency of the situation because he pushed up into a gallop as they hit the straight path through the trees. The pace was smooth, if incredibly fast, and Tristan instinctively leaned over the horse's neck, forcing Natalya to do likewise. The pain was being replaced by sheer adrenaline as he focused only on staying on the horse and not letting go of the girl. He was looking over her shoulder at the path ahead and noticed that her cheeks were burning with embarrassment. It may have been exhilaration too, but it made him realise just how young she had to be.

Mercifully, Natalya soon called an end to the gallop, slowing Sarakos to a walk. The horse was sweating slightly, but seemed even more energetic. Natalya kept him steady, despite her obvious anxiety about Tristan's closeness. Tristan relaxed his hold on her and let his arms fall down by his sides.

"Does this horse live off speed rather than grass?" she wondered, there was a smile in her voice.

Tristan huffed; it was an apt description of Sarmatian horses. His shoulder was starting to throb and the agony in his side and leg were making themselves known as the exhilaration wore off. Natalya patted Sarakos' neck and then kicked one leg over the horse's neck. "I'll walk,"

But Tristan wasn't going to let her escape that easily. He caught her hip with his good arm "You have no idea how quickly Woads can travel," he said. "Sarakos can carry both of us easily,"

She sighed and returned to sitting astride the horse, head hanging. She seemed tired. Tristan was exhausted too and leaned against her slightly, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin tunic.

"Are you alright?"

Tristan sighed, silencing further fussing. "I'll be fine. You can look at the wounds later," he said.

"Well then… it's alright… to lean on me if you like…" she said sounded like she would prefer to push him off the horse, but Tristan knew she'd have to throw herself off too once he was leaning on her; so he rested more of his weight against her back, surprised by how strong she was. Looping his arms around her hips, he rested his forehead on her shoulder with a sigh. He made a mental note to swear her to secrecy about this later – his fellow knights could _never _know.

* * *

_He's hurt, he's in pain, he's your patient… this a definite breach in the doctor-patient contract! _I thought, panic rising in my gut. He was too hurt to try anything, and I could always just refuse to treat his wounds. But the bloody stoic would probably deal with it _manfully_.

"Are we still going the right way?" I asked suddenly.

Tristan grunted an affirmative. "Keep heading north east," he murmured. "Follow the wall."

"Okay," Walls, Woads… and…? Dragons? Surely not…

I whiled away the time pondering this alliterative conundrum – unable to think of a synonym for 'ungrateful douchebag'.

We were very lucky in as much as it didn't rain, and the Woads didn't catch up with us. Then I decided that we needed a break – especially Sarakos who had been doing all the hard work. Tristan sat up and looked about, clearly confused.

I slid off the horse and stumbled as pain lanced through my bad foot.

"Ow, ow, ow…" I said through gritted teeth as I hopped about. I let out a shaky breath as I hobbled back to Tristan who promptly dismounted and staggered into me, his leg having given out. This sent us both to the ground, with Tristan landing on top of me, partially at least, and it drove the air from my lungs.

Tristan groaned in pain – no doubt his injuries had just been made much worse.

I couldn't even make a sound. I just lay under him, taking tiny sips of air as my vision clouded from lack of oxygen. Tristan managed to roll off me, but only so far as to lie on his back beside me.

He cursed briefly and I wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment. In such a state, what a pair we made. After a long moment, I felt ready to try speaking and managed a half-hearted croak. "You alright?" I managed.

There was a neutral grunt, which I took to mean 'no' – but Tristan didn't want to admit he was hurt. I pushed myself up into a sitting position, which took more effort than I'm willing to admit either.

"Let's have a look then…" I said, turning to him. But Tristan slapped my hand away.

"I'm fine," he said, voice choked.

I knew he didn't like me. But he didn't have to; I wasn't going to force him. I got to my feet and went back to Sarakos, fetching the cloak-bundle full of bandages. I wanted to change the dressing on my foot for starters.

More groaning from Tristan as he sat up. I unwrapped my foot while leaning against a tree. It looked alright; clammy and white from all the trapped moisture, but miraculously clean. I poured a little water on it and let the wound dry while I glanced over at Tristan. The man was glaring at me horribly.

"Attend to me!" he snapped, hand clutching at his wounded side. I thought I saw red seeping between his fingers.

"Alright, alright…" I mumbled, setting aside enough bandages for my foot and then limping over to kneel beside him. What was I, his slave?

He groaned as I peeled his tunic up. The bandages were sodden with blood.

"You are _such_ a liar…" I mumbled, shaking my head at him. I got a slap round the cheek from an iron hand for that.

"Don't be so impudent to your betters!" he growled.

I glared at him. "And don't you _ever _hit me again!" I spat, the shock of the blow, however light, making me vent my frustrations at him. "In case you've forgotten, I saved your life back there – so for the time-being _you_ are reliant on _me_ to get to the fort!"

It wasn't a proper rant – I could have gone on for hours about all my grievances (top of the list being the fact I was there in the first place) but it was what I wanted to say to him. So instead of having to glare into those hateful green, green eyes any longer, I stood and limped back to the bandages for my foot and began to wrap up the wound again.

* * *

TRISTAN

He stared at her, surprised at her sudden temper. Usually women cowered or even cried once they'd had a hand raised to them. This girl's eyes grew icy as she flew back into the fray with twice as much fury; she had also told him a few uncomfortable truths – he had struck someone he owed his life to. But by all the gods above and below, she was infuriating!

She, meanwhile, was sitting some distance away, bandaging her foot. Sarakos ambled over to her and messed her hair with his velvety lips. Natalya actually smiled at that and she reached up to stroke the horse's head. Tristan realised it was the first time he'd seen her smile – it was even more odd that she had forged such a strong bond with the horse in such a short time. It was a Sarmatian relationship with their horse, not a pesky little Britain's – the scene jarred something in him.

The pain of his injuries eventually forced Tristan to talk to the girl again. He sighed, clutching his wound and praying for deliverance from this monster. He knew the only way to get her attention would be to do what Bors did on countless occasions with Vanora…

"Sorry," he said gruffly. Natalya's back stiffened and she turned around very slowly to stare at him. Her expression was inscrutable.

After staring at him for a moment she sighed too, pushing a hand through her hair, which simply slipped back over her face again. "Apology accepted," she murmured, standing and fetching the bandages. She also snagged an extra waterskin from the harness. Without coming any closer to him, she began to knot some of the bandages together, making a loop. Only then did she limp over to him and re-bandage the wound on his side; her expression was closed and hard, as if she was waiting for him to hit her again. In such close proximity, Tristan could see the red lines already appearing on her pale cheek from his fingers. The sight made him feel worse, despite his continued dislike for the girl: it was dishonourable to treat someone who had saved your life with disrespect. Then she held up the loop of bandages and put it around his neck, making a sling for his injured shoulder. She then leaned back, hands on her knees as she stared at him solemnly.

"And how does your leg feel?" she asked. There was no emotion in her voice; it was as if Tristan had knocked all the goodwill from her with that slap, replacing it with nothing but dutiful attention.

"It will hold," he said truthfully. It wasn't that he didn't trust her to care for it; he just really didn't want her to get him out of his trousers again. The thought was too emasculating.

Then Natalya did something unexpected, she stood, fetched a cloak from Sarakos and returned to wrap it around his shoulders. He looked at her in surprise, but she seemed to ignore his reaction and walked away again with a curt nod. For a rude, stupid girl she was surprisingly thoughtful. He fastened it deftly with one hand and sat watching her. She'd left him the waterskin and some of the food – clearly she was taking some sort of break.

Tristan mulled it over as he nibbled at the jerky – probably venison – and reached the conclusion that he'd been unfair on the girl. While the apology had been a lifesaving necessity, the gift of the cloak from her was an unfathomable gesture. By rights she could have let him catch a chill, but instead she'd shown him kindness in the face of his impulsive brutality. Was she attempting to shame him?

He managed to limp behind a tree to relieve himself when the girl disappeared to probably do likewise. And when he reappeared he noticed her standing by Sarakos, looking about worriedly. So she was truly concerned about him? She didn't… she wasn't _attracted_ to him, surely?

That horrifying theory was mercifully blown out of the water when she caught sight of him and despite the way her shoulders dropped in relief, her face closed into that near-scowl once more. She was still wearing only the light tunic and thin trousers he'd first seen her in, and she looked cold, especially in the way she huddled slightly against Sarakos' shoulder. Tristan felt the breeze's chill and pulled his own cloak a little tighter around his shoulders. Natalya was watching him with hooded eyes as he struggled to walk to her. He made it, but felt physically ill and swayed alarmingly when he reached her. She darted forward and caught him, again showing surprising strength as she threw his good arm over her skinny shoulders and helped him sit down as painlessly as possible.

"Why are you doing this?" he said once she'd given him some water and retrieved the rest of his clothes from Sarakos' harness.

"You need my help," she said simply. It wasn't enough for Tristan. Her selflessness reminded him of Dagonet or Arthur – they pitied those who were too weak or afraid to help themselves, even at the cost of their own safety.

"But why? Even after…" he trailed off, biting his tongue. To give voice to what he'd done would be to shatter the tense peace they had recreated.

"After you hit me?" she said. Well, if she was going to say it…

She actually smiled self-consciously as she considered his question. "I suppose because I've already worked hard to save you, I'd hate to see all that effort go to waste simply because you're being ungracious about it." She sighed, looking him straight in the eye for once. The shock of those piercing, clear eyes staring into his, still marred by that awful iciness from before, seemingly reached inside with reptilian precision and looked around at what went on in his head.

But that was impossible. No one could do that.

"I apologise," he said, fighting the bile that was rising with the words. "I swear on all my gods and yours that I will guarantee your safety until I can repay the life debt." The words felt like vinegar, but he was honour-bound to say them. The notion of this brat being tied to him filled him with a strange nausea.

Natalya pulled away from him, her face falling into shadow as her hair fell around her face. But her expression was slightly more relaxed. "Then let's get you to a real surgeon: you're long overdue some stitches and willow-bark tea." She said, and the lightness was back in her voice again, as if they had just been discussing the weather or patrol rotas. But the eyes were still cold.

Trying to instil respect by force had failed miserably, Tristan surmised. But he had won her co-operation and good will when he had been kind. Or at least, not hitting her and shouting at her. She shook out his clothes and helped him to dress in his outer tunic and surcoat as the afternoon's chill intensified. She, by contrast, had nothing to keep her warm. Tristan resolved to share the cloak with her when they were on the horse again. Generosity didn't come naturally to the scout – not in the same way killing or intimidating others did. He didn't have to remind himself that they were tied together now by a life debt. He had given voice to it and sworn to protect her.

What had he been thinking?

* * *

**What had he been thinking indeed! They aren't really getting on are they?  
Please, please, please review. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, here's chapter 3!  
Gosh, I've been very productive indeed… no wonder I'm now pulling all-nighters to finish my neglected work…**

* * *

**SUPER-MEGA-WARNING!****  
Here's where it could get super uncomfortable for some of the readers… so here goes:  
The ancient Greeks and Romans were pretty relaxed about recreational homosexuality.  
Pederasty was even institutionalised in cities like Sparta and Thebes – so the idea of a citizen (specifically meaning a legitimate adult male, eligible to vote and hold political/military office) having a younger man/youth as a lover was a perfectly normal occurrence.  
But ****only ****if they were the ones who… erm… took the male role. To be the passive partner immediately made the youth the 'woman' in the partnership. So if the older guy was known to be the 'woman' in the relationship, he'd be a public laughing stock. **

**If this is too disturbing for you, then don't read any further. There'll be a lot of references to 'delicate boys'…  
(Taken from the Wikipedia page below)  
"The **_**puer delicatus**_** was an "exquisite" or "dainty" child-slave chosen by his master for his beauty as a "boy toy", also referred to as **_**deliciae**_** ("sweets" or "delights")."**

**I have also laughed in the face of actual Roman military rules regarding slaves. Otherwise my story wouldn't work. **

**And I have also included a link to Wikipedia, (taking out the spaces of course) if you're interested in learning more.  
http: /en. wikipedia. org/ wiki/ Homosexuality_ in_ ancient_ Rome **

**So don't flame, please just stop reading and look elsewhere: I am not trying to traumatise anyone; just entertain and educate.**

**Disclaimer: ****Still don't own anything. And after this… I'm not sure they'll give me the rights.**

* * *

_Awkward-awkward-awkward!_ I screamed in my head while helping him back onto the horse. Out loud, I merely said: "Again?" as I heaved at his shin, trying to give him a leg-up while not catapulting him straight over Sarakos' back and onto the ground the other side. We were both trying to balance on a slippery fallen tree. Sarakos' patience was incredible as we heaved, grunted and (I) laughed at the unintentional silliness of our predicament.

"What's so funny?" Tristan asked when he was finally astride Sarakos' back and I was tying all the things to the harness again.

"For a couple of horsemen we're being remarkably hopeless right now," I explained, smirking at the knot I was fastening. He didn't like me; I wasn't his number one fan at that moment either – but the immediate situation tickled me so much that I couldn't help but be amused. When I'd secured the last bundle, Tristan held out his uninjured hand to me, offering to help me up.

I shrugged, and let him manhandle me onto Sarakos in front of him. This was decidedly trickier than if I was trying to mount up behind him, but we somehow managed – even though at one point Tristan was practically sitting on Sarakos' hips while I lay across the horse's shoulders like a sack of potatoes. I chuckled a lot then too, much to Tristan's obvious disapproval. Once we were finally settled and ready to go, there was an awkward silence. I was staring down at the reins I was twisting in my hands when Tristan unexpectedly wrapped the cloak around both of us.

Wow, that was cosy of him.

* * *

TRISTAN:

She nudged Sarakos into a walk, heading for the now visible edge of the woods. It was an awkward silence, but Tristan had nothing to say to fill it – so instead he stretched his tired senses into their surroundings, searching for any hint of human activity. But his mind kept returning to the way she had laughed as they had tried to get on Sarakos. She had seen the irony and chosen to be amused rather than be shamed by the situation. Meanwhile, he had felt such frustration and anger at their combined weakness that amusement didn't seem remotely appropriate. It was only when Natalya was lying over Sarakos like a dead man, chuckling as she wriggled ineffectively and asked for a 'little help', that he'd allowed himself a small smile, secure in the knowledge that she'd been unable to see his derision. She was such a pest.

They rode at a steady march along the track until they finally reached the road that ran parallel to the Wall. Natalya seemed undaunted by the massive, seemingly endless construction, and simply asked:

"Are we the right side of this thing?"

"Yes," he said, idly wondering what he was going to do to keep her close when they reached the fort – no answers sprang to mind.

The fort's walls appeared in the distance as they mounted the crest of the hill.

"Let me do the talking when we get there, be silent and follow my lead," Tristan said. It was the safest option in any scenario he could imagine happening.

"Just don't tell them I'm a whore," she said.

"Even if I did, I don't think they'd believe me," Tristan said, straight-faced.

"Thanks, I can see you're feeling better," she growled.

The night was drawing in by the time they reached the gates and the soldier leaned over the rampart to call down to them.

"Who approaches?" he shouted.

"Tristan, Sarmatian knight serving under Lucius Artorius Castus!" Tristan called up. "I require immediate entry!"

The soldier didn't even respond. The gates swung open mere moments later and Natalya urged Sarakos inside. Soldiers and squires rushed up to attend them, all voices raised in a cacophony of confused questions as they were helped off the horse.

"Where is the rest of the detachment?"

"That is Sir Kay's horse! Where is he?"

"You are wounded! Quick! Someone fetch the surgeon!"

"And who's this?" said the head groom. He'd caught Natalya under the arms and gently lowered her to the ground like a child. Next to his huge frame she really did seem even younger, her frame skinnier. True to her word, she kept silent and was currently huddled against Sarakos in obvious fright.

Tristan, in a moment of inspiration, said the first thing that entered his mind: "He's a slave I picked up in the market at Coria, we barely escaped a Woad raid with our lives. Everyone else was wiped out."

"Haha… you've good taste, he's a pretty one for sure," leered one of the soldiers. "Look those big eyes… and that hair…" he reached out to touch her and Natalya shrank even further into Sarakos' bulk, trying to edge towards Tristan. The soldier grabbed a handful of her long hair and tugged sharply, trying to pull her towards him, but the head groom – second only to the Stable-master and horse trainers – stepped in. He moved between then and slapped the soldier's hand away.

"Don't be a fool, Marcus," he rumbled, buying Natalya time to scuttle to Tristan's side. "That's _Tristan's _boy."

The soldier seemed to realise the implications of angering the most feared of all the knights. He immediately began to stammer an apology, but Tristan waved it off.

"See that my things are brought to the infirmary with us," he ordered, reminding everyone of their business. Once again, both he and the girl were swept up in the rush of shouting men and borne away, but not before Tristan felt a small cold hand slip into his. He squeezed it tightly in warning. Then one of the stable hands looped Tristan's good arm over his shoulder and helped him along. Behind him, he heard Natalya squeak involuntarily as she was lifted bodily in the head groom's arms. That raised a laugh, but luckily the girl managed to hold her tongue and not give them away.

The surgeon was waiting for them. "Ah, Tristan," the old man said as Tristan was helped onto one of the pallets. "Back with us again, I see. Was it Woads or bandits?" he asked.

"Woads," Tristan grunted as the physician's assistants helped him out of his clothes so they could treat his wounds.

Across the room, Natalya was huddled against a wall, hugging herself as she shrank from the assistant trying to examine her. Tristan noticed and said: "He only cut his foot on a rock, silly child. We fled while we had the chance, but then my injuries slowed our pace." That little explanation would save her from being stripped and discovered.

"Who treated your wounds?" the surgeon asked, examining the bandages around Tristan's side, shoulder and leg as he peeled them off.

"The boy," Tristan replied promptly.

"He has had medical training," it wasn't a question.

"But not enough if he's to be _my_ slave," Tristan remarked, wincing as the assistant began to clean the wounds, preparing them for the inevitable stitches. "He's new; shipped in from one of the farthest corners of the empire – it's a miracle he can speak Latin at all."

"A barbarian? Sure he's not simply from Ireland? Still, that's surprising. And you've plenty of time to train him up," the surgeon said. "Those eyes are most enchanting." He eyed Natalya appreciatively and she looked away in response. "And those long lashes, the hair; almost feminine… will you take him back to your land when your term of service is over?"

"Depends if he's still useful in ten years' time," Tristan remarked lightly. "But he's quiet – barely says two words inside a day, which is nice when I have knights, soldiers and officers bawling at me from dawn till dusk." He was being unusually chatty, but it was more for Natalya's benefit than anyone else's.

The surgeon chuckled and went over to the girl. She was hyperventilating, gasps making her flat chest heave as her eyes fixed upon the needle in the assistant's hand.

"What's wrong?" Tristan called over to her.

She pointed at the needle, primed and ready, and shook her head violently, eyes on stalks.

"Afraid of a little needle?" the surgeon asked, simpering. Natalya nodded emphatically.

"Well then, if we bandage it up tight and find you some shoes, will you promise not to walk on your foot until it heals?" the surgeon said, taking her dainty foot in one wizened hand and stroking her ankle with the other. Natalya shuddered, her face white, and Tristan felt a little twinge of pleasure at the sight – now the tables had turned. But his attention was dragged back to his own injuries as the assistant began to sew up the wound in his leg, and the girl was forgotten.

When he did manage to speak, he said: "He'll do as he's told, but I'd rather not listen to him shriek like a girl if it's all the same to you," Tristan's hands were clenched around the bedframe against the pain. It was too much! Torn between his own agonies and saving the girl from some stitches. This whole sorry situation was so mad.

The surgeon then began to tenderly treat Natalya's foot, murmuring things to her as he did so. The girl remained glued to the wall, her eyes never leaving the old man's hands as he deftly treated her foot. Whatever he was saying, it didn't seem to reassure her – instead, she seemed to set her face and almost glare at him.

"All done," the surgeon proclaimed. "I'll send for the shoe-maker in the morning to have some little boots made for your boy, Tristan." He said, "Such dear little feet…" he wandered over to examine Tristan's sutures, nodding approvingly at his assistants' efforts. Once that was over, the wounds were dressed in fresh linen bandages and Tristan was given a spare tunic to sleep in while his clothes were washed and mended. The surgeon said that the fort commander would want to speak to him on the morrow and word would be sent to Arthur as well.

Then he was asked to drink a horribly bitter concoction to help him sleep. He refused after the first sip and assured the surgeon that he would sleep perfectly well without it. Then nearly all the lamps were extinguished and they left alone in the infirmary, with only an assistant to keep watch. He sighed and settled down to sleep when he heard the soft padding of uneven footfalls across the stone floor. Groaning internally, he cracked an eye open and saw Natalya creeping towards him.

* * *

So I was a boy… that bastard Tristan probably had his reasons (unfathomable though they were), but that surgeon had said some pretty disgusting things to me while bandaging my foot. And by disgusting, I mean topics concerning if I put out for a fee. Or if he could at least have a look.

I knew I should be using this sort of attraction to my advantage… but I had been more preoccupied with not attacking the greybeard with my bare hands. The men were all so… offhand about it! Even Tristan was implying that we were on more than just speaking terms.

As I lay on the narrow cot, I reassessed my situation…

One: I was now considered a boy. This meant I had to dredge up some latent and deeply far-fetched acting ability to remain convincing.  
Two: I was Tristan's slave. This meant that I'd be kept close and moderately under his protection. Although the way everyone was looking at me, I was starting to think that slaves were fair game for a little midnight sodomy.  
Three: as a slave, I'd have to get used to being harassed, treated like shit and unreasonable working hours. But I'd done waitressing in a vodka bar, which wasn't much different to be honest, especially on a Saturday night. So that only left becoming accustomed to beatings.

Yup, things were looking bleak.

I just had to convince Tristan that if he thought working me to death would mean he could escape the life debt, he had another thing coming. Namely a knife to the throat.

But then I noticed, through half-closed eyes, the way the assistant was staring at me. Oh bugger. So I got up and tip-toed over to Tristan's cot. I didn't care if I was too close to him – right now I didn't like my chances against all the perverts in the fort. So I sank down on the stone floor by his head, intending to sleep there. He glared at me, but I'd take another slap over being groped any day.

Oh ho, time to experiment with a little manipulation. Did this guy have a soft spot for the damsel in distress?

I tucked my hands under my cheek and stared up at him with the most melting expression I could muster. "Please don't leave me alone here," I whispered softly.

I didn't expect him to sigh, and then pat the cot next to him invitingly.

Was he serious? Jackpot…

Sensing the assistant' eyes on us, I was obliged to maintain the ridiculous pretence of obeisance to this bastard. So I climbed onto the cot and curled up against his uninjured side, facing away from him. This was so unbelievably awkward… But lying in a proper bed, safe from the perverts, all my body wanted to do was sleep. I sighed, wrapping my arms around my knees, grateful to Tristan while simultaneously furious at his lies and terrified of the morning to come.

Sometime during the night I must have rolled over because I awoke to find my face pressed against the surprisingly soft material of a tunic that enshrouded the shoulder of a certain grumpy 'master'. My arms were mercifully pinned between my chest and Tristan's arm, so there was no hugging – but I wasn't the only sleeping lecher. Oh no, he had reciprocated and pressed his face against the crown of my head. Snuggled together like a pair of chaste lovers with the entire infirmary standing witness.

This was just great. At least Tristan hadn't woken up yet.

With the stealth of a hunting cat, I carefully sat up and climbed off the cot. Tristan must have exhausted himself yesterday, because he slept on. Lazy bugger.

I limped back to my own cot and as I sat down, raised voices were approaching the infirmary. I wrapped the blanket about my shoulders and listened to the approaching men.

"… _had us worried sick! And Kay…" _said one. It sounded suddenly saddened at the mention of this 'Kay'.

"_Don't dwell on it lad, we'll have our answers soon enough," _

"_Where's he been hiding the past day?" _

"_More to the point, how did he get here in the state he was in?" _

"_Apparently there's some boy with him," _

"_Boy? I didn't think Tristan swung that w—" _

The door was kicked open and the man's voice choked momentarily as they all stared at me. Then he let the rest of the sentence fall out. "—ay… erm… I stand corrected," the man said, a nauseated tone in his voice. He was a boy really – late teens, but with a well-developed physique and dark brown curls that clustered thickly above a boyish face.

"Just who in hell is this?" thundered the especially loud, shaven-headed man, he was older and had a long, knotted scar running down his forehead. Powerfully built, and fierce, he seemed the most likely to hit me and ask the questions once he was sure I'd comply.

I simply stared at them silently, drawing a mask of calm over my face. They couldn't kill me and wouldn't rape me – anything else rather paled into insignificance.

Then I heard Tristan wake up, he was automatically tense and alert. "Wha—?" he paused, recognised the men bearing down on us and relaxed again. "What are you doing here?" he said icily.

"Oh, a fine greeting!" said the shaven one sarcastically. "Why did we bother to ride here?"

"We feared the worst when your horse returned Kay's body to us yesterday," said the long-haired one. It hung about his shoulders in chestnut curls, and very blue eyes. Handsome devil, really.

"So Kay didn't make it," Tristan said – his voice was flat and inexpressive, but I knew from yesterday that he had been saddened by the thought of his… comrade's?… death. At least his horse made it.

"No, and we'd almost given up on you when the messenger arrived with news you'd crashed into the fort with some pretty boy on Sarakos and sporting severe injuries," said the youngster. "And now we find it's true!"

I kept very still as their collective gaze slammed onto me.

I kept up my blank stare. What else could I do? Leap off the bed and start saying it was all a ghastly lie concocted by a half-dead lunatic? If ever I got out of this place, I would quit university and take up a career in acting.

Tristan's eyes were narrowed with suspicion as he stared at me. If only I could have winked back reassuringly. Instead, I blinked at him slowly and then tried to stand up, only to have the really big, loud man march over, place a very heavy hand on the front of my tunic and yank me upright free of charge. My hair, still all over the place from sleep, fell over my face as I was dragged towards the others. I raised my head quickly and found myself staring at the three newcomers at much closer quarters.

Eek.

I think I must have let a hiss of fear escape from between my teeth; because I twisted myself out of the bald man's hold and almost fell onto Tristan's cot. The frame rocked slightly and Tristan didn't seem the least bit inclined to save me now. So much for life debts.

"Well? Who is he?" the long haired man asked, folding his arms as he stared at me.

"Picked him up at Uxelodunum," Tristan grunted.

"Never thought you were one for the _deliciae,_ Tris," said the youngest looking man. He stared at me with something akin to revulsion. Whatever, kid – I'd seen scarier kittens.

"I'm not," Tristan said, sounding very grumpy.

"Even I can see you why though," the long-haired one, pretending he hadn't heard Tristan's negation. "With those looks any number of Romans would want his arse," he didn't sound too impressed either, despite his appreciation of my physical aesthetics.

I shuddered involuntarily and drew the blanket tighter about myself. I knew that Tristan had said he would protect me… but I was still getting used to the idea of being an object of lust. I had to find some means of self-protection as soon as possible; a knife perhaps…

"Well now he's mine," Tristan said, he fell back onto the pillow with a heavy sigh. "I'll tell you the whole sorry saga later so get out of my face and let me rest." I limped to the table, fetching a jug of water and a cup for my 'master'. Bloody hell, that was getting old fast. The sooner I could escape the better. I could feel the men's eyes on me as I knelt down next to Tristan and helped him sit up a little to drink.

"Isn't that just sweet?" the big bald one said in a sickening tone of voice. I'd kept my face forcibly impassive the whole time and so had Tristan – this was a dangerous act, deceiving his friends. "They're both cold-faced!" the man explained with a bark of laughter. I got up and was about to replace the jug and cup when the 'comedian' grabbed me again, even more forcibly. I kept my eyes lowered and braced on the balls of my feet – here it comes…

"Listen here, lad," he growled at me.

Maybe not.

"You try anything – _anything –_ and I'll hang you from the Wall by your ankles until your head falls off!"

Considering my unique circumstances it was hardly a threat. I snorted and turned it into a cough before nodding earnestly.

"What's your name?" he breathed into my face. I tried not to wrinkle my nose at the smell, so I blinked rapidly and kept very still. "Well?" the man said, shaking my shoulder – his grip was bruising and it wasn't even his sword hand.

I pitched my voice a tone or two lower than usual and said in a very soft voice, as husky as I could make it: "Don't have one,"

"I haven't named him yet, Bors," Tristan said wearily.

Finally I had a name to put to this man; I glanced at him slyly and then caught the other two looking between Tristan and me. Clearly this was out-of-character behaviour for Tristan. Had I put him – and my extension myself – in danger?

* * *

GAWAIN:

He simply couldn't fully take in what he was seeing. Tristan: the loner who killed as easily as breathing, whose eyes missed nothing and whose ears heard everything. The man who was so paranoid and skilled that all were slightly wary around him… this man had bought a slave? Well that was hardly surprising – Sarmatians kept slaves too – but here? Knights were allowed to each own one personal slave (perks of a big salary and bigger military status) but Tristan was the last person Gawain thought would take advantage of this boon. The man was so private no one even knew what he did when he wasn't on duty!

And now he owned a waifish youth with long black hair and eyes like a winter sky; they missed nothing, and the small, high-boned face seemed eerie – it was a girl's face. Was Tristan disguising his personal whore as a boy to throw them off the scent? The slave was certainly short enough, barely taller than Vanora. But the utterly flat chest, the narrow hips and long limbs… it was an odd little figure, mystifying.

Either way, they could trust Tristan to pick a slave as disconcerting as himself (albeit in a different way). The lad didn't seem particularly afraid of Bors either, which earned him credit in Gawain's eyes. But it was when he spoke that Gawain knew that this boy was going to be more trouble than he was worth: _"Don't have one," _

Silky smooth, melodic, faintly accented. It was utterly beguiling, even to Gawain's ears. How had this lad _not_ been snapped up to be some perverted old Roman's plaything? Why had Tristan wanted him?

Bors, as usual completely unfazed by such subtleties, merely shook the boy by the shoulder and said in a slightly less than bellowing voice to Tristan: "Well Tris, think of one!"

Gawain knew that the assistant near the door was looking more and more annoyed and would eventually find someone to throw them out – but they still had plenty of time yet.

Tristan's reaction was perhaps the most fascinating of all. He froze temporarily and considered the slave for a long time. Eventually, he said one word: "Kation,"

It was a Sarmatian name – unsurprising, but also… unusual. For Tristan to give the boy a name from his own culture meant something – Gawain couldn't figure it out. But the scout never did anything without a reason; Gawain swore to himself that he'd untangle this riddle.

"Kation…" Bors repeated. The naming had taken him by surprise too. He turned back to the youth, who was staring at Tristan with a strange intensity, those sky-clear eyes glowing with some unnameable emotion. "What did your mother call you?" he asked. The slave glanced at him, and pulled himself out of Bors' grip for a second time.

"I don't remember her," he said. His voice was so… weird. Galahad nudged Gawain's arm, but didn't say anything. Gawain glanced at him quickly. His young friend flicked his eyes to Tristan for a split second before going back to watching the interplay between Bors and the slave.

Gawain slid his gaze to the scout. The man looked… wary. This was suspicious enough to prompt Gawain to walk over to his comrade. "So Tristan," he said, sitting on the edge of the cot. "Mind telling us why you bought this… _boy_?" and the doubt with which he said that word made Tristan look at him sharply.

Ah _ha_…

The scout had nowhere to run and looked so damn tired that Gawain almost regretted interrogating him. But he had to know… had to be sure that Tristan wasn't going to do anything monstrous…

"What do you mean?" the scout asked wearily.

"He has the face of a girl. Those delicate brows, the smooth voice, the narrow shoulders… I wonder… " Gawain asked, trailing off suggestively. Tristan had that unreadable look on his face, but it was carefully controlled. It was also all the fuel needed for Gawain's suspicions to strengthen.

"Kation's not what _he_ seems," Gawain insisted after a very pregnant pause. Tristan picked at the woollen blanket, not meeting Gawain's eyes. "_He's _not like other boys – and Arthur is the kind to notice."

Tristan tensed at that but still said nothing. Gawain resisted the urge to groan in frustration. "Don't be stubborn," he said, his voice lowered so that Galahad couldn't hear his words. "I know something's wrong, and I'll find out the truth – whether it's from you or Kation doesn't bother me."

Tristan looked at him then, a clear warning in his eyes. "Stay away from him," he growled. Gawain tilted his head.

"Then you'd better start talking," he challenged, "I won't wait forever."

While they were talking, Kation had been listening to Bors' bullshit with gravely polite attentiveness; but he'd also kept an eye on his master. Seeing the tension between him and Gawain, he openly turned his attention to Tristan, prompting Bors to stare at the two as well.

Gawain smiled and stood, clapping Bors on the shoulder and nodding to Galahad. He had noticed that the younger knight seemed particularly suspicious of the slave and hadn't joined in, preferring to hang back awkwardly and watch. The newly named Kation limped to his master and stood close, arms folded in front of him and with just a hint of challenge in his eyes as he stared at the departing knights.

Facing up to three knights in a matter of minutes… Gawain nearly chuckled. This kid would bear watching. He leaned over and patted Tristan's shin, "We'll leave you to rest. After all, why give Tris' setbacks when we can have him recover and then make him go on patrol instead of us?" he said, turning to throw the question at Galahad and Bors.

Bors nodded enthusiastically, "Right! I hate going out there in the rain! Van' always says I smell like a wet dog when I get back from patrol. Don't know why she thinks that," he rubbed his shaven head, releasing a toxic combination of stale leather and terrible body odour from his armpit.

"Just turn your head a little to the left and you'll have your answer," Galahad laughed and led the way out of the infirmary.

Gawain paused in the doorway and turned back to look at the strange silent pair: the slave was still standing his ground, unmoving. He was almost glaring at Gawain, while the cant of his head suggested that he was measuring the knight up. Gawain felt his gut clench: something was so far off the mark that it had missed the target altogether. And to compound it all, Tristan was complicit in the mystery. What had provoked this? The unspoken trust between the two was unnerving since _no one_ had been able to approach Tristan for months when they first arrived in Britannia. What was so special about this spirited slave with the chilling eyes?

Had he just answered his own question?

He felt his jaw tighten and he glanced at Tristan, who looked _amused. _Clearly the slave and his master were in on some wonderful secret that Gawain wasn't invited to join. He sneered momentarily and then left – resolving to have a bath and try to forget those cold, cold eyes.

* * *

**Bwahahahaha! Oh my god… the idea of the knights' faces as they barge in on Tristan and his suspected boy toy… **

**But Gawain's a crafty devil… will he work it out for himself? Will he get the truth from Tristan?  
**

**Reviews will make me write more and publish chapters faster. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Two chapters! Wow! This is unheard of for me. **

**Anyway, if you've read this far then it means you have now committed to a story heavily laced with sexual themes. It will not abate or lessen as the story continues, since it's central to the plot. **

**Warnings: ****More of the same… swearing, 'delicate boys', blah-blah-blah… Don't like don't read – you have been warned. **

**Disclaimers: ****Do not own anything except the OCs and the plot.**

* * *

TRISTAN: 

He hadn't expected to be caught with the girl by his fellow knights so soon. There had been no time to plan a story, or choose a name. Nor did he completely understand why he had managed to sleep for so long while his comrades had made enough noise to wake an entire fort singlehandedly. He should have heard Bors' roar as they galloped through the gate. Clearly he'd had too little sleep recently.

Naming the girl on the spot had been the trickiest thing, since Gawain was one of those knights who could read the meaning in things. In the end, Tristan had chosen a name at random. Something short that sounded at least vaguely similar to 'Natalya'. 'Kation' was as far as his brain got before it tumbled over his lips. Clearly he'd surprised her too, because she was now staring at him in a very fixed way that made him secretly grateful they were in a crowded room. He was protected by her need to play the part of slave.

"Kation…" she murmured to herself, still using that odd deep voice from before. Then she arched an eyebrow at him and sat down on his bed again. "So… how did that go? Will I have to fear for my head?"

Tristan felt his lips twitch slightly in amusement. He quelled them. "Gawain's onto you. He knows something's not right and won't leave you alone until he gets an answer. While Galahad is…" he broke off. How to describe that hot-headed youngster? His opinions superseded logic very frequently. It was almost Roman. "He is afraid of what you represent," he explained. "Despite being a knight, he's got attention from men – probably why he's trying to grow a proper beard,"

"And Bors?"

"He lacks the guile. Plus, you stared at him like he was nothing to be afraid of, and he appreciates bravery." he murmured in a low voice. "By the way, that voice of yours sent a patient over there into spasms. Very sexy," he purred. "Gods know how 'Kation' will survive at the fort,"

Her other eyebrow rose to join its partner on her forehead. "Well then I suppose I'm lucky to hold your life debt – it makes all of this _your_ problem," she whispered in her normal voice. There was nothing but ice there. Then she sighed and pushed her hair out of her eyes, looking weary as she limped back to her own cot. She lay down and appeared to fall asleep instantly, arms wrapped around herself.

Tristan sighed too… what a bloody mess, as Bors would say. Time to think of someway to salvage this.

When he awoke in the afternoon, he heard that smooth voice of 'Kation' and the throaty chuckles of… _Gawain? _Coming awake fully, Tristan fought to stay still and simply listened as intently as possible to their conversation:

"So," Gawain said. "After you escaped the cult, where did you go?"

"My former master said we ought to run to the nearest tavern and salvage what was left of his and Tranio's shredded dignity with the medicinal application of more wine. But Giton had disappeared after his encounter with the virgin, and since our masters could barely walk after the catamite was through with them…" here Gawain's laughter broke his narrative. "Well it was up to me, half-blind with drink, to find him and bring him back. So I managed to drag the masters to the tavern (which I'll tell you about in a moment) and then I took off into the night to find Giton. Mind you, I was still dressed up as a girl, with my hair perfumed and dressed with flowers – I felt a complete fool, stumbling into people, swearing, clinging to the walls and ground for support as I tried to track the reprobate down…"

Some sort of story – no doubt invented for the purpose of deceiving Gawain. Tristan wondered just how well-educated the girl was, and if this would help them in some way. But the story was intriguing, and since she appeared to be in no immediate danger, Tristan sleepily opened his eyes to look at 'Kation' and Gawain. They were sitting on the girl's cot and she was leaning against the wall, legs tucked under her as her hands darted through the air, illustrating the story. Gawain was watching this hypnotic action attentively. What on earth had they done before he awoke? Did Gawain know the truth? Tristan fought the urge to alert them to his presence by asking. Instead, he continued listening to the story.

"… so after I'd escaped the gladiator I found Giton in a gutter, vomiting up everything in his stomach whilst unknowingly being mugged by a mad drunken beggar," 'Kation' chuckled briefly. "I cannot remember encountering a single soul who wasn't off their face that night. Anyway, in my haste to rescue Giton, I managed to trip over the beggar and land on top of my fellow slave. He recognised me and helped to pull the flowers out of my hair while calling me a 'pretty little dryad'. We kicked the beggar away, even though Giton had nothing to steal, and ran back to the tavern. Giton was a strong young man – far stronger than I – and he could easily fend off any trouble we might have encountered. But when we got to the 'tavern' where we'd left Cleon and Tranio, they ran out to meet us, looking like they'd been to the underworld. Apparently they'd installed themselves in another brothel and nearly been raped again!"

Gawain roared with laughter and reached over to tug playfully at her hair. She grinned back – it wasn't the same sort of open, innocently happy smile she'd bestowed on Sarakos. This one had something behind it, but wasn't unpleasant.

"Then what happened?" Gawain asked.

"Well, with no idea of where to go, and it nearly being dawn, we resolved to flee the town altogether and take our chances. It was a terrible idea, but Giton was still drunk and in no fit state to argue. It was only when Tranio and my master tried to sit on their horses' backs that they resolved to try for a tavern again," Gawain winced and shook his head. "Quite. So we re-entered the town and looked about. Eventually we found the sort of place bandits probably frequented and managed to take rooms just as the sun was coming up. We slept until noon – then Giton and I were sent out to find food. The rest of the journey was relatively uneventful – but you can imagine the welcome we received from Tranio's family upon our dishevelled arrival."

Gawain sighed and smiled. "Well, Kation, I'm sure you look better now, despite an equally rough journey with Grumpy over there," he said, jerking a hand over his shoulder in Tristan's direction. That took some nerve considering who Gawain spent the vast majority of his time with… "Though I daresay you will want to have Tristan wash before being forced to ride with him again."

"I would not presume to tell my master what to do," she murmured, averting her eyes. They fell on Tristan and widened. "You're awake!" she exclaimed, crawling off the bed and limping to Tristan's cot, snagging the water jug as she went.

As Tristan was helped to sit up and drink, he noticed the way Gawain watched them. There was calculation and suspicion there.

Tristan trusted the man with his life, but did he trust him with the girl's?

Had to start trusting sometime… he'd have to clear it with the girl first though. He beckoned her closer. She bent obediently, though her eyes were on fire with warning. Clearly she didn't even properly trust him yet – so was this really a good idea? Her hair spilled around them like a curtain of sorts, giving them a degree of privacy.

"Should we tell Gawain the truth?" he whispered in her ear. She leaned away and stared down at him, clearly thinking.

"You trust him," she whispered back. It wasn't a question, but Tristan nodded anyway. She sighed, bit her lip slightly, and then shrugged. "It's your life debt – do what you like," she whispered, getting to her feet. Tristan caught her wrist – it was so narrow his fingers overlapped each other. She pulled slightly, but only enough to realise that Tristan was intent on whatever he'd decided. She fell still, her head hanging.

"Gawain," Tristan called past her.

The long-haired knight, who'd been paying attention to this the whole time, stood and joined the girl at his bedside. "Will I be getting my answer?" he asked evenly.

* * *

Surely this wasn't part of his master plan. I wasn't thrilled about this. Gawain was very perceptive and despite having very strong suspicions, I hadn't expected Tristan to give in so quickly. It didn't matter if they trusted each other if such deception was anathema to them. All I cared about was making it out in one piece and unmolested.

When Gawain had returned to the infirmary and woken me for an interrogation I had invented a simple backstory for myself. Kation – no, I;I _was_ Kation now, not Natalya – had been a slave as long as I could remember. Luckily, I had been bought as a very young child to be playmate to my master's son. The household had been a good, domestic place and I had received a first class education alongside the heir, even accompanying him to Athens to study when he was a young man. I had been even more fortunate to have been left strictly alone by men, despite verbal propositions and the occasional physical attempt. What had my previous names been? Oh, well that didn't matter now that I was Kation, but Cleon had called me Pallas.

I made a pretty good show of it, but I could practically taste the suspicion that hung in the air between us. I trod very carefully through our conversation – having to mind the pitch of my voice helped, but it was exhausting. When would Tristan wake up and give me an excuse to escape? Bloody man…

Then (in a masterstroke of genius) I distracted Gawain from his questions by offhandedly mentioning having had worse journeys than the one to the fort. I then launched into a slightly edited version of Petronius' _Satyricon _with all the bells and whistles. My gamble paid off – Gawain hadn't heard the story before and laughed at my descriptions of crazed Priapic priestesses and drunken orgies. In this ghastly narrative I had, by some miracle, always managed to preserve my virtue despite some hefty petting on occasion. Gawain's suspicions suspended themselves while I wove the tale for him but I knew that it was only a temporary distraction.

Then I noticed Tristan staring at us from his bed – finally! I helped him drink some water, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to help him sit up. This sort of thing had become so normal that I didn't even question what it must look like – even though I'd only met the hateful man forty-eight hours ago. Then, as I lowered him back onto the pillow, he beckoned me closer with one hand. I leaned down, trying to communicate with my eyes that we were still being watched by Gawain.

"Should we tell Gawain the truth?" he whispered very softly in my ear. I pulled myself upright again, and looked at him for a moment – I knew that he trusted Gawain and said so. He confirmed it and I thought about it some more. Tristan's honour required me to remain in a state of near-perfect health so he could adequately repay the life-debt and then be rid of me. If he thought it was a good idea, then it wouldn't harm me.

So I sighed, hoping he knew what he was doing, and shrugged, "It's your life debt – do what you like," I stood, preparing to walk back to my bed, when Tristan grabbed me by the wrist. I tugged, trying to get away from that stare, but he hung on. I wasn't going to hurt him (yet), so I hung my head. You want to display your power to your friend? Fine. I'll play along. For now…

Tristan called Gawain over, and the knight joined us, dwarfing me with his bulk as he stood close to give us some privacy. This was just peachy – but at least Gawain had washed the stink of travel off himself.

"Will I be getting my answer?" he asked. I didn't visibly react, but I wondered just how much this sharp eyed knight had already noticed. Tristan still had a hold on my wrist, and the warmth of his hand somehow steadied me. I still wanted to sit down though – my legs were unaccountably shaky. It was up to Tristan now, he knew how much to tell Gawain – how to spin this so that the man wouldn't betray us. I could only stand there and pray to… well, Fortune's as good a force as any; that I'd be delivered from these knights as soon as possible. If they were the ones I was meant to spend my time with, I wouldn't follow their orders. Perhaps I ought to deliberately imperil myself, have Tristan save me, and then flee to some nice little place by the sea and become a fisherman's wife or a lady's maid – anything but this.

Tristan tugged at my wrist and I sat heavily on the bed beside him, grateful to prevent a potential collapse.

"It is to go no further than the three of us," he said severely. Gawain raised his eyebrows but after a protracted silence, he nodded.

"I swear," he said. Tristan let go of my wrist and grabbed Gawain's instead – a warrior's handshake. If only I could induce them to swear it in blood over their gods' altars… but this would have to do. And the fewer people who knew the better.

And so Tristan told Gawain how he had been attacked by the Woads; how I had stumbled upon the aftermath and saved him, treating him and managing to drag him to the nearest fort. Gawain listened attentively, his eyes flicking between us.

"Why were you there in the first place, wandering through the forest?" he asked me. I had no idea how to answer that. The absolute truth? Even Tristan didn't know where I came from. 'From another world' was too much of a cliché, even for me; plus I doubted they'd believe me. I shrugged.

"I doubt you'll believe me. But I'm new to these shores, although I've heard much of Britannia. But I promise, no one will come for me, I am quite alone in the world." It wasn't a total lie. Some of it was even the truth.

Gawain wasn't satisfied, "Yes, but why were you in the woods? Why agree to be Tristan's slave?"

Tristan answered the latter, sparing me from having to answer the former: "I owe him my life, and since he clearly doesn't know a thing about Caledonia, I said the first thing that came into my head which would keep him close."

Gawain nodded, satisfied, but then turned a very shrewd look on me. I didn't fidget under it, but did press my fingers against my lap. "You say 'him'…" he murmured to Tristan, even more quietly than before. "But I am not so sure…" he said, staring at me. I remained impassive – again, Tristan knew best in this situation (as much as I was loath to admit it).

Before Tristan could say anything, however, Gawain reached over and felt along my chest. I stiffened, too shocked to slap his hands away. I think my eyes nearly popped out of my skull.

"Hmm…" Gawain seemed unaware of my utterly transfixed state and continued his search for my breasts. Good luck to him, because they don't exist.

"G-G…" I tried to say something; but all blood had left my head. I was still paralysed.

Tristan did me a huge favour and hit Gawain. Once his hands were gone, I sort of snapped back to life and leapt off the bed. I still couldn't say anything… Tristan looked like he wanted to laugh, but self-preservation must have kicked in and he wisely kept quiet.

Gawain however, did laugh. "Well, if you are a girl, then Tristan's not keeping you around for sex," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Your face makes me think that perhaps you are – I've never seen someone go such an interesting grey colour before…"

"Alright you bastard," I relented, still not going near Gawain – the man was a first class pervert if nothing else. "But as far as everyone's concerned, my name is Kation – please endeavour to forget the one I first told you," I said, turning to Tristan. He nodded. "And since I've no skills to afford me a decent wage, I'll stay your slave if that's alright," I said. Tristan nodded again. Gawain groaned.

"You've no idea what you're letting yourself in for," Gawain groaned. "I'd be a great master – no savage pets, reasonable working hours, no odd habits that will give you nightmares –"

I interrupted, "Thanks, but Tristan is indebted to me – I do not have a similar contract with you, as disappointing as that is." Gawain shrugged, apparently unconcerned. "I will be his slave as long as he owes me his life." And didn't that sound just so messed up? Gawain thought so too because he started to laugh again. Tristan groaned, letting his head fall back onto the pillow.

"Get out, both of you," he growled at us.

I looked at him, wide-eyed and innocent. "But master," I said, not bothering with the deep voice, causing Gawain to start at the sound. "I've got a cut foot – I can't walk at the moment so I cannot go anywhere."

"What _are_ you?" Gawain asked in bewilderment, his eyes travelling to my flat chest again. I crossed my arms defensively, glaring.

"Gawain, I'll buy you a drink later if you get him out of my sight," Tristan growled. "Take him to a tavern in the town or something,"

"Yes, 'master'," Gawain mocked, and stood before picking me up, bridal style.

To my credit I didn't squeak as I had done the previous night, but I did grab at Gawain's collar reflexively. The infuriating man chuckled. "You weigh nothing, Kat," He said as I was carried from the infirmary.

"So you _are_ a girl, right?" Gawain said quietly, there was doubt in his voice.

I smiled. "Yes,"

"So… why…" he looked uncomfortable, but I knew what he was asking: why the flat chest?

Truth time.

"I'm just a freak… bad breeding or something. I don't know," I explained. "I just didn't… _grow_ in certain ways."

Gawain looked at me then. "And that life story and the adventures in Greece… all lies?" he said, his voice just the wrong shade of deadly calm.

"I didn't know I would be confessing the truth so quickly," I argued.

To my amazement Gawain smiled, shaking his head as we walked through the gates of the fort and into the town beyond. "If you can make up stories like those off the top of your head then I think we'll be fine," he chortled. "This will be fun."

… For whom exactly?

We entered the tavern and Gawain jerked his chin in greeting at Galahad and Bors who were sitting at a table near the back. I was set down next to Bors who raised his eyebrows at me.

"Tristan begged me to drag him away – we were annoying him," Gawain explained, then disappeared to fetch drinks. I pulled 'Kation' around me like a cloak, and hunched my shoulders as if in defensiveness.

"Please don't mind me," I murmured as gruffly as I could. Galahad snorted derisively into his ale flagon and glared at me briefly before looking away, determinedly aloof. Tristan had given me enough warning about each of these knights to predict their general behaviour. I turned to Bors, all shyness, and not faked in the least.

"I'm sorry, I can leave again…" I murmured, not having a clue where I'd go, but determined to not end up staying in the tavern causing an awkward silence – I'd be stuck with these men for quite some time… Bors didn't believe in such a thing, however, and shook his head.

"Nah, I have more questions for you," he said. I resisted the urge to sigh mightily. But surprisingly, Galahad spoke up first.

"Where are you from?"

"Overseas," I hedged. "I'm still new to this land,"

"Hmm… not a Saxon, are you?" Bors said. I got the feeling there was a joke in there somewhere, but I shook my head seriously. Gawain re-joined us, pushed a cup of water at me and sat down next to Galahad. I smiled at him and he winked back.

I turned to Bors to answer his question: "No, I came from beyond the Empire, the slaver in my land sold me to a Greek, who took me first to Ionia, and then across the sea to the Peloponnese."

"So what was your Greek master like?" Gawain asked. "Did he beat you? Have his way with you?" I fought the urge to kick him under the table – one foot was already busted and I didn't feel like walking back to the infirmary.

"No, he had in mind to raise me to be his secretary – he had this idea that the younger one started training a child, the more skilled they would become,"

"How old were you when he bought you?" Bors asked. "You don't look very old to me,"

"I don't know exactly, but I'm older than I look," I said mildly, taking a sip of my water. It tasted slightly chalky but not unpleasant. "I learned to read and write very quickly, but my master, had more difficulty wrapping my mind around things like philosophy and knife fighting."

All the knights looked surprised at this. "Knife fighting?" Galahad exclaimed incredulously. I shrugged.

"My master wanted me to defend him, I proved utterly terrible at it though," I said, hanging my head. It was a lie – but not in the way that you think. I had done more than merely snark and scowl in Narnia. I'd _learned_ things. Dangerous, violent things.

"I can see why," Bors held up one of my arms for the others' inspection. "This boy's got arms like sticks!" he laughed and slapped me hard on the back. Oof. "Well, I'm not sure what use you'll be to Tristan if you can't even use a knife," he went on. "Our scout doesn't really go for reading or poetry."

"Just killing," Galahad added sourly. I got the distinct feeling Galahad didn't really tolerate things that upset him.

I shrugged. "Whatever he tasks me with, I shall accomplish," I said. It wasn't a boast, more like a declaration of suicide. The others seemed to see it the same way too, and Gawain's eyes were even tinged with the beginnings of compassion.

"So what are you good at?" Galahad challenged.

I sighed, "Alas, I'm not very clever. But I can do mathematics and I'm good with animals," I said. They were the only things I thought would help me get by in the fort unnoticed – singing was out for obvious reasons, as was my encyclopaedic knowledge of Lord of the Rings.

"Well that doesn't sound like any slave I've ever heard of," Galahad said sarcastically. "Such a short supply of stable boys at the moment…" he glared at Bors, even though his anger clearly wasn't directed at the scarred man. "Tristan could ask him to look after that monster horse of his, I suppose – no one else can get near it."

"I don't think we want Kation dead within minutes of our arrival at the fort," Gawain remarked mildly. "If he's educated, then perhaps he could be hired out as a secretary for Arthur – Jols is run off his feet as it is."

Bors grunted his agreement. "Maybe do some chores for my Van' as well."

I presumed he was talking about his wife, so I shrugged in a non-committal sort of way.

"I will do as my master orders," I said softly. Everything had to be controlled and low-pitched. I couldn't show fear – I couldn't afford to be afraid of anything.

Seemingly satisfied with this answer, the knights returned to talking about patrols and Woad movements. I listened to this intently, but with a vague expression, as if I didn't understand. I was determined to be underestimated – it was sort of like being at school: you kept your head down and didn't draw attention to yourself around the teachers. Manumission was a long way off, but I had to start laying the foundations now. Another useful trick picked up in school was guarding whatever liberties granted to you, and not to be caught abusing them.

That, above all, was my goal: to not be caught. I had to be more cunning and devious than Machiavelli. But considering that I'd fooled two out of three of Tristan's colleagues, I thought I was doing pretty well.

It was starting to get dark when Gawain stood and stretched. "Time to get you back to your master," he said to me. I stood, keeping all my weight on my uninjured foot.

"I must take him some food," I murmured.

"Don't worry boy, they're not going to let a knight starve," Bors rumbled. "Ah, I'm for bed," he stood and stretched with a grunt before lumbering off. I wanted to get back to Tristan – there was some comfort in being near the one person qualified to insure my survival.

Gawain swept me up into his arms once more. "I'll be back shortly," he told Galahad, and strode back to the infirmary. Once we were out of earshot, he said in a whisper: "Become useful to the knights, they'll protect you."

"Useful how?" I asked – I wasn't going to be screwing anyone.

"Chores, favours, fetching and carrying – just show willing. After all, Tristan's often away from the fort, so you'll need people who'll watch your back. And I can't always be there." Gawain explained.

Had he appointed himself my guardian? How tiresome.

Once back in the infirmary, I was dropped onto my cot.

"The boy hasn't eaten," Gawain said to Tristan, who nodded but otherwise didn't acknowledge his comrade. He seemed to be trying to sleep.

Hang on, I hadn't been offered anything! Thrice cursed bastards…

I frowned slightly but said nothing. Slaves had to deal with whatever was thrown at them – not complain like fussy students from the 21st Century. I was no longer that person… but another who had already gone through a lot of shit in Narnia. Who had fought and struggled, survived and killed.

After Gawain left, Tristan turned to look at me.

"What happened?" he asked.

I shrugged. "They talked, I listened."

Tristan sighed. "When we get back to the barracks, I want you to stay away from everyone."

"But Gawain said I ought to be useful to the knights – that they'd protect me."

"You won't need their protection; no one will dare approach you." He grunted. How very arrogant of him – did he think that would be the case because of his reputation, or would I be literally tied to him at all times?

"But if you're away…" I started to argue, but Tristan interrupted.

"Then you'll stay in my room."

Great, a veritable prisoner… "Oh come on—"

"I'm not going to argue about this – I will leave you tied up in a sack if needs be."

He probably would, too. I'd find a way around this later, so I stopped arguing and we fell into a sullen silence, punctuated only when I finally curled into a ball to sleep, facing away from that arrogant, smug sod.

* * *

**Oooh boy, Tristan's uppance is coming! Kation (for that is the name we shall all now think of her by) is pretty mad. Wouldn't you be, though? I'd say she's shown remarkable self-control thus far. But everyone's got a breaking point… **

**If you'd like to see Kation snap, Tristan sulk some more, and Lancelot rendered speechless(!) then please review and let me know what you think. Thanks!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Okay… I had a decision to make with this chapter: it could have been either slightly under my average word count for a chapter. Or hugely long. **

**Guess what? Because you're all being so kind as to review my fic (sometimes on multiple occasions – I am looking at ****flyingcrispi**** and ****AngelDustAddict**** here, you are super-lovely people!) I have made it a hugely long chapter. **

**Thanks also to ****Kristall****, ****Scottjunkie**** and ****JMM1979**** – you are all so very kind and nice and I want to make chocolate soufflés for you all!**

* * *

GAWAIN

When he had returned to the tavern, and was listening to Galahad and Bors argue good-naturedly, Gawain pondered on the easiest way to achieve harmony in this inevitably bizarre situation. The simplest solution would be to integrate the girl with the knights; if they accepted her then no one around the fort would give her any trouble. He'd have to lead the way, since Tristan couldn't be relied upon to forge good relations with a block of wood. So how he'd managed to take in this tough girl and win her implicit trust was a mystery.

He'd spoken to the surgeon, who had told him that Tristan would be able to travel within a couple of days by cart. This meant that Gawain needed to think of a convincing ploy now and anticipate any dramas that may occur. Perhaps if they set Kation up as a sort of… domestic help? She certainly wasn't strong enough to handle their horses.

He ought to ask Tristan what sort of tasks he had envisioned for the girl tomorrow – perhaps they could concoct a plan together...

"Tristan – a word," Gawain said, pulling up a stool to sit by the scout's bed in the infirmary.

His comrade threw him a long-suffering look. "What do you want?" he murmured, throwing a quick glance in Kation's direction. His 'slave' was lying on her back on her cot, hands tucked behind her head as she stared into space – clearly bored out of her mind. Gawain couldn't blame her.

"What work did you have planned for Kation when we get back to the barracks?" he asked quietly, turning back to Tristan.

"Hmph… I was going to ask Arthur to take him on as a secretary. He can write after all, and I think he might be clever enough to be genuinely useful there."

"Jols is run off his feet at the moment, it's true…" Gawain nodded. "It could work. And it's safe."

Then the person in question sighed and rolled over, facing them with a hand tucked under her cheek.

"Master?" she said. Gawain wondered if she knew that voice was several kinds of sexy, even to someone who knew the truth.

"What now?" Tristan snapped, clearly immune to the ways of the flesh; as dead and bloodless as one of his homemade corpses.

Kation flinched back at the tone in his voice. "Nothing… sorry…" she turned away, facing the wall.

Gawain wondered what that had been all about, but wisely stayed out of it – for all he knew, Kation had been irritating Tristan for hours.

The next few days passed slowly, Galahad and Bors returned to report to Arthur, while Gawain stayed to organise dragging Tristan back to the barracks. As well as this herculean task, Gawain had to take Kation off to choose some clothes that actually fit her.

She had stared at the array in the shop for some time. Eventually, she had picked out a grey lightweight under-tunic and a close-fitting black tunic with full length sleeves and a high collar, which she cinched with a wide grey sash at her waist, emphasising her utterly flat chest and narrow hips. Her skinny legs were now clad in a pair of slightly too-long black leggings that she tucked into a pair of dark brown boots. Over all this, she wore a very loose grey woollen over-tunic that resembled nothing more than a short cloak that had been sewn closed with huge, loose sleeves cut into it. Gawain had tugged it over the girl's head, and was pleased by the way the high collar helped to obscure her delicate jawline somewhat.

"Why wear all that black?" he asked as he paid the man for the items.

"So that people will not notice me," she replied seriously. "Thank you for this," she added. Gawain shrugged.

"Your master will pay me back the moment he gets the chance."

"But these are very fine…" she said doubtfully. "You did say 'pick anything I liked' and I chose some expensive things…"

"No they're not – this is the sort of thing everyone wears. Besides, you are the only slave of a prestigious knight – you have to look the part." Gawain said cheerfully. In truth, she reminded him a little of Lancelot or Galahad – both of whom habitually wore dark clothes for no apparent reason. Gawain suspected it was to disguise stains. And black was a perfectly common colour, really. Granted, her style was outlandish, even to the Sarmatian, but Gawain assumed that her choices were based on her own land's traditions; besides, they weren't flamboyant enough to warrant undue attention – after all, there were many types at the Wall.

On the day of the big move, just as Gawain had seen Tristan settled (after the rather extraordinary sight of Tristan being _helped _onto a _cart_ while good horses were standing by) Kation trotted round the corner of the infirmary building atop Sarakos and leading Gawain's grey, Irbis, by the reins. She'd tied her staff across her shoulders and her long black hair streamed in the breeze like a banner.

Gawain nodded to her and caught the reins that she tossed to him. "Right, let's go." He said, nodding to the soldier who had been charged with driving the cart. Once on the road, Gawain rode alongside Tristan, who was glaring at him.

"What's with that horrible look?" he said. "Don't tell me you're sour about being a passenger for once?"

"Shut up. If you're looking for entertainment then go tease my slave or the soldier." Tristan said, and looked away.

Gawain shrugged. "Suit yourself." He murmured, and trotted forward to join Kation.

"You're a natural," he said, admiring the easy, natural way she rode. "Done much horsemanship?"

The girl shrugged. "All my life."

"And can you sing?" The second most important feature in a good woman…

That question drew a sharp look of suspicion and a curt nod. "But I sound like a girl," she added in an undertone.

"Well perhaps you'll sing for me when we're alone." Gawain purred, leaning over the pommel of his saddle to grin at her. He was seriously tempted to see her exposed as a girl – it would just be too much fun to see what would happen.

"Hmm," she seemed to think about it. "Maybe sometime after you grow a brain." she replied haughtily.

Gawain chuckled; that was why it was more interesting to play this game. She was constantly surprising him. "And don't mind your master," Gawain advised. "If he's suffering he'll either demand we help or deny there's anything wrong."

But Kation frowned slightly. "It would be terribly inconvenient for me if he died before clearing up the mess he's landed me in." She threw him an annoyed look. "Have you heard he plans to keep me locked in his rooms? It's almost as if he doesn't want to get rid of me!"

Gawain shook his head, grinning. "If he thinks to keep a wildcat like you caged, then he's a bigger fool than I ever thought him to be," he turned in the saddle to look at Tristan. "Good luck with that!" he laughed.

* * *

TRISTAN

The rest of the journey was uneventful, apart from Gawain singing several songs. Tristan wasn't one to normally praise others – especially people as annoying as Gawain – but he had to admit that his fellow knight was a fine singer. Kation seemed entranced by the songs, despite not understanding the words.

The teasing ended when Gawain realised that Tristan wouldn't rise to the bait, and the girl – now a huge blight in his life – occasionally threw glances at him, checking to make sure he was still alive, no doubt. Tristan wondered what she would have done if he hadn't sworn to protect her. In all likelihood she'd have disappeared at the fort. How he wished he'd just kept his mouth shut, given her some money and then abandoned her! Why had he been so stupid as to take her on as a slave? Why bother repaying the debt? The thought of spending the vast majority of his time with someone tracking his steps like a permanent shadow was terrible. The realisation that it would be that girl made his future seem very bleak indeed.

It would be like owning a very expensive and useless pet. She'd need more clothes, winter boots and a thick cloak and a thousand other things. And he'd have to arrange for a cot to be put in his rooms, since the idea of letting her lodge anywhere else was asking for even more trouble. There would be no more privacy, no more blissful quiet.

Gawain would have women to his room most nights, so the hope of sending her there so Tristan could get some peace was futile. Perhaps just sending her to the stables… she could sleep in Sarakos' stall and wouldn't bother anyone. Tristan rarely considered the women of the fort to be worth the effort it took to sweet talk them into inviting him back to their beds. To those knights who had yet to attach themselves to a single wench – unlike Bors or Bedwyr – it was pure sport. The thrill of the hunt. Tristan preferred less fraught games. Usually, he would do practical things in his spare time, such as re-fletching arrows.

But now that the girl was there to do such things for him, he would have nothing to do. Perhaps he would try helping Bedwyr… or build bows… or teach the girl how to defend herself. Tristan then remembered that he would have to question her later – when they were alone – and find out what skills she really did possess. If there was anything more to her than reading and writing then Tristan wanted to exploit it. She had already forged a strong bond with Sarakos, so perhaps her claims to good horsemanship weren't complete lies.

They finally arrived at the fort – to an absolute din of consternation at the sight of the girl astride Sarakos. Tristan felt a twinge of pride at the way the girl lifted her chin and stared steadily ahead, utterly composed despite all the cat-calling and shouts from the inhabitants. More than once he heard the words '_deliciae' _and_ 'puer delicatus', _shouted at her in tones of highest derision. Tristan looked about for his fellow Sarmatians. It was bad enough that Gawain knew about this… humiliating cart fiasco. But if someone like Lancelot or the twins saw this he wouldn't be able to terrify them ever again. Fortunately, they all seemed to be busy or were simply… elsewhere. Tristan shrank into the depths of the blanket Gawain had so thoughtfully tucked around his legs and hid, hoping no one would even notice he was there.

The soldier drove the cart all the way into the Sarmatian stable yard, above which was the knights' rooms. Tristan remained hidden, and peeped round the corner of the blanket to see who was about. Only Galahad had bothered to turn up, which was a relief: there was no way Galahad would _ever _be in a position to tease Tristan about _anything. _Gawain had leapt off Irbis and was now standing by Sarakos, helping Kation to the ground. His fingers seemed to nearly touch each other around her waist as he supported her weight.

Then she followed Galahad into the stables, leading the horses to their stalls. Galahad seemed his usual uptight, grumpy self, but had been glared at by Gawain to do it so…

Wait a moment, where was Gawain?

The blanket was torn off him in one flourishing movement.

Damn.

"Look what we have here! A little puppy hid in our luggage!" he cackled. Tristan hurled the waterskin at his head, but Gawain easily dodged it and helped Tristan out of the cart. "And straight up to bed!"

"I want to see Tagiytei first."

"Ugh… you and that horse…" Gawain groaned and shouted for Kation. She appeared a second later.

"Sir?"

"Give your master that stick."

"Of course, sir," she unslung the staff from her back and handed it Tristan. He took it with a nod of thanks, and with Gawain on one side and the staff on the other, he managed to limp over to his horse's stall. One of the stable boys, Amandus, was trying to put fresh water in the horse's pail but Tagiytei was doing a magnificent impression of a Bengal tiger that Tristan had once seen in Londinium. Head lowered, ears flat to his neck and teeth bared, the horse strained at the gate that held it captive and rolled his eyes at Amandus who looked about ready to dump the bucket over the horse's head.

Tristan whistled through his teeth, and Tagiytei immediately gave up tormenting the stable-hand. Ears pricked, the horse caught sight of Tristan and whickered excitedly. '_You! It's you! Hello!' _

Tristan couldn't help the smile that broke out across his face – luckily those around him pretended not to notice. Tagiytei leaned so hard against the door that the wood creaked ominously. The horse transformed instantly from devil to excited colt, practically shaking as Tristan reached out a hand to the horse's nose.

"Hey," he whispered as Tagiytei drank in his master's scent, straining to get closer. "There's someone you need to meet," he said, and beckoned to Kation.

The girl limped forwards and he grabbed her wrist, dragging her close to his side – if Tagiytei decided that he didn't like her, he'd have to bite Tristan first. The girl stepped close to Tagiytei's nose, arms crossed over her chest. Tagiytei breathed on her for a few moments, and then nudged at her, curious.

_That_ was a surprise.

"Ha! Only you, Tris, would manage to buy a slave who's also a shaman!" Gawain laughed from his safe distance by Amandus. Tristan threw an incredulous glance at Gawain, who just kept shaking his head. "I don't bloody know!" he laughed. "Only you…"

Amandus stepped forward and hastily poured the water into the pail before Tagiytei noticed his presence, then rushed off to complete his chores. But not after a long curious look at Kation, who was stroking Tagiytei's nose, engrossed in the bonding session.

"Okay, now that the touching reunion's over, let's get you to your room!" Gawain said, waving his hand in the direction of the stairs. They helped the scout to his room and put him to bed and Kation was then tasked with fetching him some lunch from the tavern.

"I'm heading there anyway, so I'll take him." Gawain offered. Tristan sighed, this could only end badly.

"Do not make a scene." He said, fixing both of them with a stern look, to which Kation returned an expression that clearly said 'Are you crazy?' and Gawain looked furtive, as if a plan had just been thwarted.

* * *

GAWAIN

He hurriedly dragged Kation away from the sulking invalid – the man was such a fusspot. Gawain only meant to show the girl where the tavern was, load her up with enough food for the two of them, and then send her straight back to Tristan. Not that he didn't want to see the knights' reaction to Kat' – he just wanted to see how Tristan dealt with the knights' reaction more.

Oh this was going to be so entertaining!

But first, Kation needed to be introduced to the most important ally anyone at the fort could hope for. He led the girl round the back of the tavern and in through the kitchen door.

"Vanora! I've got someone to show you!" He called.

"Gawain! Back already I see, where's Tristan?" The beautiful redhead appeared round the corner, she was radiant, despite the slightly smoky atmosphere of the kitchen. Gawain put it down to the pregnancy.

"He's in bed, grumbling and throwing waterskins at anyone who tries to show him a shred of kindness."

Vanora shook her head, as weary of Tristan's antics as the rest of them. "I'll go see him in a second, just let me fetch my shawl."

"But you haven't met Kat!"

"Who's Kat?"

"This," Gawain hauled the girl out from her hiding place behind him and held her out to Vanora by the shoulders. "Is Tristan's new slave, she's called Kation."

"'She'?" Vanora said doubtfully, looking the girl up and down with raised eyebrows. Kation scowled and crossed her arms again.

"I know, that's why everyone – including your lover – thinks she's a boy. It has to stay that way; you understand?"

Vanora nodded immediately. "I understand. So why tell me the truth?"

Here, Gawain felt heat creep up his neck. "Well, there are problems… unique… to women…" Realisation dawned on Vanora's face and she smiled.

"Aha, I get it. Not to worry," she said, turning to Kation. "When it happens, you just come find me and I'll sort you out."

"Thank you," Kation said, she seemed to have warmed to Vanora slightly.

"And now we need food!" Gawain said, getting Vanora back on task – he really didn't want to be caught in the middle of a conversation concerning female matters.

"Of course, go through to the front and ask Brenna to fix you something. I'm go back to Tristan with Kation."

Gawain nodded. "Alright, see you later little Kitty-Kat." He ruffled the girl's hair with a grin – she ducked away, glaring at him. Gods, she was so like Tristan… it was almost spooky.

* * *

Gawain was, without doubt, the most annoying person I'd yet encountered. I didn't dislike him in the same way that Tristan made me recall my talents for violent behaviour – he was just an almighty pest. And now he had given me a nickname.

Vanora seemed like a nice woman really – barely older than me by the looks of it, but already showing a bit of a pregnancy bump under her dress. Cute. I wondered if she had any more lurking about. I didn't really like children – mostly because I wasn't very good at interacting with them.

"So did Tristan pick you up in Uxelodunum?" Vanora asked.

"Yes." I lied. Gawain had explained to me that this was another large military fort to the west, which Tristan and the now deceased Kay had stayed for a couple of days.

"Why has Tristan decided to disguise you as a boy?"

"Probably to make more use of me," I shrugged. "A woman can't do the same things a man can."

Vanora nodded sagely as she began to prepare a basket of food – I saw fruit, bread, cheese and cold meat all being packed away neatly. A veritable feast was being prepared for us. Considering no one had given me a decent meal since yesterday lunchtime, I was more than ready to eat. "That's true; Tristan needs a lad who can take care of matters for him here when he's out on patrol. A girl would just be left to take care of his clothes and warm his bed…" she broke off and blushed. "Sorry, I didn't mean…"

"That's alright."

"I-I mean… you don't…? He hasn't…?"

I knew what she was trying to ask, but was clearly nervous about upsetting me. "No, he doesn't have plans that way." Vanora seemed to relax. Tristan seemed to have something of a monstrous reputation… "Although I don't know if he'll tell everyone else a different story." I added darkly.

Vanora laughed at that. "Oh I think there are more than enough people here who'll think of half a dozen scenarios to that effect. My advice: ignore it."

I nodded. Of course I'd ignore it; there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Vanora fetched her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Right, let's go." I picked up the basket and followed her out, tipping my head forward so that my hair hid my face as I scanned my surroundings, stretching out my 'personal space' to look for trouble. But, amazingly considering my luck, the most attention we got was people who greeted Vanora. They seemed to me ignore me, which was absolutely fine.

Without pause, Vanora entered Tristan's room, smiling broadly at him. The stubborn bastard was sitting up and seemed ready to leap from the bed at the sight of us.

"There you are! You gave us all quite a scare – and now I hear you have this charming creature for a slave." She said, smiling at me. I let something flicker across my mouth and dumped the basket on the bed. Then I fetched the solitary chair for Vanora, who was stretching her back out, and set it beside Tristan's bed. Then I hovered against the opposite wall, away from their happy little picture. Vanora looked at me sternly and patted the bed by Tristan's leg.

"Sit there and eat – you're going to need all your strength to serve him."

I glared at Tristan, because I could, and sat. Then I picked up an apple and shoved it at him. "Eat up," I said with sweetened evil on my face and in my voice. "Fruit is very good for you." The smile felt like a knife cut across my face. Tristan look slightly alarmed, while Vanora laughed and began to prepare the food. I took another apple and bit into it, feeling a whole lot better for the sour juice hitting my throat – it only sharpened my resolve.

The rest of the meal was a quiet affair, with Vanora describing Kay's burial to Tristan. I hadn't known the man – but Tristan's solemnity only reinforced my understanding that these knights were a brotherhood of sorts. Despite my dislike for him, it didn't change the fact he had suffered a loss – and I understood loss. Even Vanora was looking tearful.

I stood and bent down to hug her – if I had tried something similar with Tristan, I was liable to be slapped again. But Vanora gratefully hung on and let a single small sob escape into my shoulder. I stroked her lovely russet hair a couple of times, and then she released me with a watery smile of gratitude. She really was a nice girl. I squeezed her shoulder and then caught Tristan staring at me in something approaching surprise. I tilted my head and raised an eyebrow.

"Surely not." I murmured.

"Oh Tristan won't want a hug, girl," Vanora chuckled. I nodded, relieved, and sat down on the bed again.

"Where is everyone today?" Tristan asked, changing the subject.

"Well, Gawain is eating at the tavern; Bors and Lancelot are out on patrol; Dagonet is seeing to Bedwyr's daughter; Galahad is supposed to be training this year's colts with Jols, and Gaheris is also with them. And I suspect that the twins will have just finished running that errand for Arthur with Kahedin, so they'll be heading for the tavern soon."

This was remarkable. I later learned that Vanora's radar-like ability to know the knights' whereabouts stemmed from her powers of perception and an immense memory for their routines and habits.

Tristan, used to Vanora's gift, nodded and nibbled at some bread. "That means the next people to visit will be those three." He sighed. Clearly this wasn't a joyful prospect. "And what about Arthur?"

Vanora smiled. "Oh he's dealing with his reports… you know how he hates book-keeping – such a man of action."

"Hmph." Tristan's eyes were drooping – clearly the food and safety of his own room was having a soporific effect on him. Vanora noticed this too, and started to pack away the food.

"I'll leave the basket here, Kation." She said, turning to me as I helped to wrap up the food. "Don't hesitate to come back to the tavern if you need more, alright?"

I nodded. "What about medicine?"

"Ah, well Dagonet will be along sometime today – he is the medic amongst us and is on very good terms with the fort's chief surgeon. Just ask him to supply you with whatever Tristan needs."

"Thank you." I walked her to the door, handing her shawl to her.

Vanora's face turned serious. "No. Thank _you_," she said in a low voice, so that Tristan might not hear us. I doubted that. "You have saved us all the very grim task of nursing this fiend back to health. He is a very challenging patient."

I smiled thinly. "I can handle him."

Something in my tone or face must have seemed sinister then, because Vanora looked slightly alarmed for an instant, then nodded and left, calling out a goodbye to Tristan as she left.

Tristan grunted again, and tried to shuffle into a more comfortable sleeping position. I crossed the room and helped him.

"I suppose you will eat all the food while I'm asleep." He said crossly.

"No, I have had enough." I said, and then sat down in the chair Vanora had vacated only moments before. While he dozed, I let my eyes travel lazily around the room, familiarising myself with every detail. This would be my sanctuary for the foreseeable future after all.

The room was actually quite spacious, with Tristan's wide bed against the wall adjacent to the door. A small table and the chair were the only other furniture, and three large, studded trunks were pushed against the walls. Light came from a small window directly across from the door. It was about as homely as a tomb. Tristan's weapons had been carried up here by Gawain, and were now lying atop one of the trunks. I was seriously tempted to inspect them, but knew that if I moved, I would disturb Tristan. So it seemed like the perfect reason to do it.

I got to my feet and moved silently over to the heap of weapons. I could always say I was sorting them. I picked up the heavy sword – it reminded me of a Chinese dao – and laid it on the table. Then the knives. These were of far more interest to me, since I could actually use them if I found myself in a pinch. Just as I was admiring a narrow-bladed knife with a pale antler grip, I heard excited voices in the outer courtyard of the knights' compound. I presumed it was the aforementioned twins and Kahedin. They thundered up the stairs, talking loudly. I didn't know what to do with myself, so I woke Tristan and then stood at the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind my back.

They burst through the door a second later.

First were two tall, blond men with identical faces and brilliant blue eyes. How they managed to squeeze through the door simultaneously was anyone's guess.

"Tristan!" they yelled in unison, rushing the bed.

"Leave off!" Tristan bellowed, holding out his uninjured arm to ward them away from physically hurling themselves onto the bed. They checked themselves and hovered over him, teetering as they regained their balance. As they babbled at him excitedly, talking over each other and sometimes in unison, another man appeared in the doorway. He was slightly shorter than the twins, and far less bulky, with mousey coloured hair. He had handsome, high-boned features and his grey eyes missed nothing. They fell upon me at once.

"Who's this?" he drawled, not taking his eyes off me. Starting as I meant to continue, I stared right back into his eyes; my gaze even and unwavering. I hid all emotion from my face and didn't fidget. Narnia had been a school of very, very hard knocks – politically and martially. Some small treacherous part of me thanked the God of Cloud-Cuckooland for sending me to that magical land first. But these men didn't know that.

The twins rounded on me.

"Whoa!"

"Who's that?"

"Tristan! Is this…?"

"My slave, Kation." My 'master' interrupted. I would have to do something about those mental apostrophes… they were inhibiting my act and I had to look _really _sincere about this, no matter how much it killed me inside to bow and scrape to this bastard.

"WHAT?" the twins bellowed as one. Kahedin's reaction was mild by comparison – he shot his brother-in-arms a searching look (very similar to Gawain's) and walked over to me, grabbing my chin and tilting my face up to look at it closely. I jerked away and let my hands fall to my side, ready to block him if he tried it again. I didn't trust him one iota. If the twins were a pair of boisterous Labradors, this was a cynical and wily fox in front of me.

Kahedin frowned and looked at Tristan again. As soon as he'd moved away, the twins pounced on me. But their treatment didn't have the same calculating evaluation as Kahedin's had, so I tolerated their gentle prodding and examinations.

"He's got a girl's face! Cute!"

"So tiny!"

"What good is he to you? We know you don't like boys _that_ way…"

"He's good with horses." Tristan said shortly. "Even Tagiytei likes him."

"Oh, that I _must_ see." Kahedin drawled, throwing another speculative look at me over his shoulder. He was standing over Tristan with a small smile on his face.

"I'm Cador, and that idiot's Dinadan," said one of the twins with a smile. I noticed he had a scar above one eyebrow and immediately tagged it as a point of distinction between the two, who were otherwise mirror-images of each other. Their clothes weren't the same, but I knew if I tried to tell them apart by their wardrobe I would only be confused again tomorrow.

"I'm not the idiot, you are!" Dinadan protested. Cador threw him a sarcastic look and then winked at me. Sibling antics like this were alien to me, an only child, so I simply stared at them both, affecting patience.

"I am afraid I will have to reserve judgement for the moment, sir." I murmured. My 'boy voice' produced three pairs of raised eyebrows and another unanimous look at Tristan.

"He is _not…_" Tristan began hotly, but Kahedin waved away his protestations.

"Even if he is, it doesn't matter." He said, staring at me again. "So apart from horses, what else can the child do?"

"Read, write, mathematics…" Tristan mumbled.

"Well, you have no use for that." Dinadan huffed. "Honestly, there are enough stable boys – so that means you must be fucking him."

Wow. Blunt.

I tried not to laugh. "I am also very discreet." I managed to keep the grin down to a smirk.

Tristan looked at me for a moment. "Indeed."

"You know, I think Tristan's found an apprentice, rather than a lover." Cador murmured to his brother, but Dinadan growled and crossed his arms.

"We don't need another like Tristan skulking about the place." He said emphatically.

* * *

**So what did you think? Do you like my OC knights? I haven't made many because  
(a) I'm a simple creature who'd end up confusing them;  
(b) I can devote more time to character development with each knight;  
(c) I'm actually more interested in writing a story rather than hosting a pageant show for all the sexy knights in their leather chaps, tempting as the latter is. **

**I welcome suggestions you might have for the storyline (do you want to see Romance, for example? A bit of Supernatural? How can I please you?). If you have even a vague inclination, just leave them in a review, or PM. **

**It's perfectly simple: Reviews make me write faster and to a higher standard. **

**Thanks! **


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello! I know I told people 'next week', but this afternoon I did a little word count on how much I'd managed to thrash out and lo! The Promised Land! **

**Thank you so, so much for all your positive feedback – I am a little overwhelmed. I never knew it would be so popular. **

**I'm also going to be big-headed at this point and say that your suggestions have put me on track. I now know what to do. I know what you want. A lot of it was stuff I had already planned. Hugest thanks for all your help! I love yooouuu!**

**An important side-note: after being asked by a lovely reviewer, I must reinforce that Kation is pronounced 'kat-ee-on' - otherwise all the cat references and Gawain's nickname for her fall very flat. **

* * *

TRISTAN

They were all discussing the girl's future as if she was somehow common property. Of course, he knew that this was simply their mentality – they were all brothers in arms after a fashion and discussed things like a single tribe (albeit a highly noisy, unusual one composed solely of men). This was one of the bizarre points of the Sarmatian conscription which puzzled Tristan. Many of their tribes had been deadly enemies, but the moment all the Sarmatian boys were huddled together amongst the common enemy, they formed their own tribe.

Tristan had never truly participated in their spirited attempts at solidarity – he had always been an outsider, even before the Romans had taken him to the edge of the world to die. It seemed a highly expensive and ridiculous form of execution to him. But he had still grown attached to the other Sarmatians… often grudgingly, but it was undeniable.

For example: the twins. Dinadan was the louder of the two – he was easily riled and preferred bellowing to speaking at normal levels. But he was also the kinder of the two, despite the gruff exterior. Cador was charming, easy-going and venomous when provoked, the complete opposite to his brother.

Kahedin was a trickster, as Cador said. Wily, devious and ruthless to an almost Roman degree, the man only protected the Sarmatians' interests. He was also a scout, and a very talented one at that. But the man's attitude was deceptively laidback; preferring to use his wits rather than his weapons, despite being a deadly warrior when necessary. And it always proved an entertainingly nasty shock to those who thought to give the slender man a hard time.

Moreover, the girl herself was proving to be a very unusual creature: first there was the mystery of her origins (since she did not behave like _any_ girl Tristan had ever encountered), then the way she had charmed his horse, and now her fearless attitude in front of Kahedin who could spot deception in the dark while blind drunk. She seemed to grow steelier by the hour. That too, was worrying. If she grew over-confident, then things were bound to fall apart around them.

The twins were too energetic to be cavorting about in an invalid's sickroom. Kahedin must have noticed the strained expression on Tristan's face and cleared his throat.

"Why don't you two push off to the tavern? I'll be along in a minute."

"But we only just arrived! We want to hear what happened!"

"We have confirmed for ourselves that Tristan isn't dying, so let's leave him alone to recover." Kahedin said with a measure of authority stealing into his tone. He used it so rarely that even Arthur sat up a little straighter when Kahedin was being emphatic about something. In that moment, he fixed the twins with a particularly powerful look. "Consider me Dagonet's representative." He said softly.

The twins needed no further persuasion and they hurriedly left for the tavern – but not without promising to tell _everyone_ that Tristan's new slave was a beauty (Cador) and a devil (Dinadan).

Once they had left and the girl had closed the door, Kahedin turned to stare at her. His expression of affability remained, but Tristan could see the calculating light in his eyes as he inspected her. But the girl ignored his stare and kept looking ahead fixedly. Kahedin moved closer to her, the interest plain on his face.

"So he's a scribe?" he said, not turning to look at Tristan as he spoke. "Let's have a look at you, then. And take off that tunic." He ordered. With a scowl, Kation wriggled out of the baggy outer tunic that had been serving in place of a cloak, and crossed her arms with a frown.

"And turn around." Kahedin prompted. The scowl continued to mar the girl's face as she turned around slowly on the spot. Kahedin's eyes drank in the sight, noticing every detail. "Scrawny little mite, isn't he?" he said regretfully. The girl was staring straight ahead, into Kahedin's chest, as if she could freeze him with her gaze; and in that moment, he half-believed his fellow knight to frost over. She had that ice in her eyes again – just like the time Tristan had slapped her. He did not doubt she was angry at him.

This was not going well.

"Well, I think that this little cat could be very useful indeed." Kahedin said, "Oh yes…" There was the tiniest note of something foreboding in his voice and Tristan, ever perceptive, felt his gut clench.

"Just don't break him," was all Tristan muttered.

Taking that as confirmation, Kahedin smiled at them both. "Well, I'd best be off before Gawain or Lancelot pick up all the girls." And then he was gone with a last, lingering look at Kation who returned it stoically.

There was a moment's silent stillness, then the girl turned to look at Tristan. Her hands were balled at her sides. She seemed very intent on hurting him, grabbing the front of his tunic and shaking him with more force than he would have expected her to be capable of.

"I should just kill you right now!" she hissed through clenched teeth. "What exactly did he mean? And what in hell does 'break' signify in this context?"

"He probably means to train you to become an errand boy for him. He can be quite demanding…" Tristan sighed, then added "and he likes women, so you're safe." It was a last ditch effort to placate her.

And it seemed to work. She let go of him, turning away to limp to the window, staring out at the Wall and the meadow beyond as if they held the answers she sought. "Hardly. He suspected me from the moment he walked in. And if you didn't notice that, I may as well abandon all hope now." She said sarcastically, thinking of practical things again, despite still being angry with him about something unfathomable. Honestly, the girl ought to be more grateful! Didn't she realise the risks that Tristan was taking?

"I will deal with him." Tristan sighed. He really didn't want Kahedin to know the truth – the man gave new definition to the word 'trouble'. And unlike Gawain, he wouldn't confront them until he had infallible proof.

"But you are injured and therefore utterly useless. How on earth could you 'deal with him'?" She sighed, raking a hand through her hair. "This is such a galling situation." Anger was seeping back into her tone.

"There we _do_ agree." Tristan grunted. He was feeling thirsty again, but knew better than to say anything to the girl. Instead, he simply lay back, unwilling to antagonise her further but keeping an eye on her nonetheless. He still didn't really trust her.

"So I am to be responsible for Tagiytei?" she asked.

"And you will work for Arthur – if he likes you."

She merely twitched her eyebrows derisively and shrugged; Tristan was struck by just how hostile she was. As if everyone was an enemy even before she'd met them. The sentiment was commendable, but misplaced when it concerned Arthur and most of the knights.

"And… what about Sarakos?" she asked, her voice smaller.

Tristan stilled. Kay would have no more use for the horse, so… "He'll probably be sold back to the Roman cavalry, or taken to market."

The girl's shoulders sagged slightly. "I would like to have had him." She murmured.

There was no denying her ability to spot good horses: Sarakos was one of the prize horses of the stables and drew considerable admiration and envy, even from the other knights.

"That's impossible – but perhaps a knight will buy him. If they can afford him." He said. It was cold comfort, but he didn't feel like trying to cheer her up. But his words finally made her turn narrowed grey eyes upon him. They were steely with something devious and determined. Tristan was very familiar with the conniving expressions of his fellow knights' faces and was therefore unmoved.

"Oh no. I have wasted enough money on you already – I do not have the funds for purchasing a war horse for you too."

The eyes narrowed even further. "What sort of wage does a Sarmatian conscript earn?"

"I am not made of money, girl!" Tristan growled. Although unlike the others, he did not waste his wages on women and wine, so he had considerably more than most of the knights. "Besides, any money I may have saved, I will have to say I spent when purchasing you."

She sighed and the frustrated expression was making a comeback. "If you're going to be _so _simple-minded about this, then I shan't include you in my further plans." She fetched the waterskin and handed it to him. "Perhaps Gawain will help." She muttered.

Tristan doubted the likelihood of such aid, but decided to let her learn first-hand that Gawain's favours only extended so far and there was always a price to pay.

"Hmm…" she frowned slightly. "It's too stuffy in here." She went to the door and wedged it open with one of Tristan's boots, creating a slight, but refreshing draught. "You're still a little feverish." Then she bathed his face and neck with a damp cloth which she refreshed from the terracotta basin on the table he usually reserved for shaving. Speaking of which, he hadn't shaved in nearly a week; his whole jaw was itching and it certainly contributed to his already short temper. Perhaps he could sit over the bed and shave himself with the girl holding the basin…

Tristan was grateful for the quiet as she focused on her self-appointed task. Her touches were impersonal and light, certainly not like the overt attempts at seduction that some women had tried. Tristan disliked to be touched unnecessarily, but for some reason the way the girl grudgingly but thoroughly cared for him wasn't at all unpleasant.

"About our presumed relationship…" he murmured as the girl checked the wound on his shoulder, bending over him to peer at it closely. "I will continue to deny it."

Her face clouded into that unreadable expression again as she sat back. "Let's get this tunic off; it's disgusting and will cause infection." She murmured. That wasn't what she was thinking about – it had something to do with their presumed 'relationship'.

Undressing was an uncomfortable process, but the girl seemed to try to make it a fast and painless experience. The autumn air made him feel a little cold, but if Nat— no, Kation noticed, she didn't say or do anything about it. She threw the tunic into a corner and then turned back to him.

"I'm going." She said, grabbing her tunic and tugging it over her head again.

"Where?" Tristan asked - he didn't like the idea of her running off where he couldn't watch over her and protect her. She was still so new, someone might hurt her.

"The stables." She replied shortly.

The decisiveness in her tone brooked no room for argument, so Tristan only said: "Take a knife."

"What?" she looked at him sharply.

"You never know…" he said, shrugging with his one good shoulder. Kation went over to his hoard of weapons and selected a knife and tucked it into the sash where it was hidden by the outer tunic.

"I think you worry too much." She said with a slight smile.

That stopped him. Why was she smiling? He was about to ask her when she turned away and left.

* * *

KAHEDIN:

He would have spent more of that evening musing about this strange turn of events. The situation would have consumed his attention and he was desperate for answers. But in that moment he decided it didn't matter nearly so much as the girl sitting on his lap who was nuzzling at his neck in such a lovely way… what was her name again?

"Kahedin!"

He looked round to see Lancelot striding over to him, his dark eyes glittering. "Hey Lancelot, how was the patrol?"

"Bloody awful! Bors couldn't spot a threat if it painted itself blue and started singing that dreadful song about girls from Coria."

"A Woad with a particularly sick sense of humour?" Kahedin elaborated with a grin. Lancelot caught his own unintentional joke and laughed. "Go get us some more wine, pet." The scout said, giving the girl a squeeze and releasing his hold around her waist. She smiled at them, although her eyes lingered on Lancelot's hungry expression slightly longer than necessary before she sashayed off.

"I think she just made a strategic shift in her attentions…" Lancelot drawled, secure in his victory over Kahedin after only a few seconds of mutual leering with the prize.

The lean scout frowned at him but didn't rise to the obvious goading, preferring to change the subject instead. "Tristan arrived back today," he said. "And he brought a little thing with him that he picked up in Uxelodunum."

Lancelot, disappointingly, didn't look even slightly surprised. "Bors told me – apparently the child is quite the curiosity."

"The kind who can read, write and is in possession of the most… beautiful features. For a boy, that is." Kahedin confirmed. "Honestly, he's got the face of a girl – and a pretty one, at that. And his hair is very long. It is a disquieting sight."

"So Tristan is made out of flesh and blood after all!" Lancelot laughed. "I always thought he was far too straight-laced to entertain such _pleasurable _pursuits as delicate chicks." It was Roman slang for such boys who kept for their looks and body – and the term was suggestive of the downy fluff that preceded a real beard.

Kahedin found the wording distasteful, but did not bother to correct Lancelot's words. He'd find out soon enough. "Neither did I. And what's more he's never shown interest in boys before, though I have seen him occasionally fulfil his needs with whores." he said pensively. "We may be missing something."

"Sod that, what that man does to relax would probably make us vomit – especially if it involves a boy. Best not to think about it and concentrate on our own needs," Lancelot advised, as the girl reappeared. He pulled her onto his lap before she could decide for herself and then took the jug out of her hands, pouring himself some wine. "Hard luck, by the way," he added to Kahedin over the girl's bare shoulder, before lowering his head to press his lips against her neck.

Kahedin remained calm, but decided he couldn't stand an entire evening of it. It was barely dark and he had plenty of time yet. So he shrugged, wished them a good night and left. Unfortunately, his luck did not improve – Gaheris was talking animatedly to Dagonet and Bedwyr; Bors was fussing over Vanora who was shouting instructions at the girls… and there seemed no particular corner for him to slink off to. Quietly cursing Lancelot's selfishness, he resolved to get a skin of wine and turn in early to ponder the mysterious slave.

He walked to Vanora who was relaying instructions to Brenna, her second in command. A pretty girl, with long blonde hair, curves to die for and warm brown eyes. She was a respectable young woman who had resolved to work in the fort rather than on her father's farm. Although many had tried to approach her, she had always rebuffed their efforts politely but very firmly. Kahedin liked her, despite the fact that she was excitable and shy – traits that belied her inner strength.

"Brenna," he called. Both women looked at him, and he waved jovially, despite the irritation still rolling in his gut. "Can I have some wine?"

"I though Lancelot sent Julia over for some more just a second ago," Vanora said suspiciously.

So that was the faithless wench's name. Oh well, no matter. Kahedin shrugged and gestured over his shoulder. "Well, they decided to get better acquainted, and I don't like to watch such things." He said, affecting an air of casual dismissiveness, despite the temptation to go back and uttelry humiliate Lancelot.

Vanora, sharp as a pin, looked to where he was gesturing and made a sympathetic face. "No one has the stomach to watch such things." She said, wrinkling her nose. Brenna peeped over his shoulder, blushed furiously, and then hastily turned back to Kahedin.

"Did you want that in a skin?" she asked, not looking at him properly. Kahedin nodded and she fled into the back rooms. Vanora waited until the girl was out of earshot before chuckling heartily.

"Even though she sees such antics all the time, she still blushes like she did on her first day." She said, holding her belly with both hands. Kahedin smiled, in spite of his terrible mood, and nodded. Brenna was an endless source of entertainment. "So… not staying then?" Vanora added slyly.

"No," he said shortly. There would always be other nights of fun and flirting.

He paid for the wine, and after a quick farewell to Vanora and Brenna, he left – heading for the stables. It wasn't where he usually went to do his thinking (too many potential passers-by), but he didn't feel like walking into any knights so soon. It was dark by the time he'd stomped into the courtyard, bathed in moonlight. Amandus, Mato and Jols had already gone home, so the place was silent save for the sounds of horses. His own horse Patias whickered at him softly and he went over to rub the horse's nose. The bay nudged at his hand, insistent, and he gave in, opening the stall and sitting next to his horse, who rested its nose on top of his head and exhaled noisily.

"Great lump," he said affectionately, working to pull the cap off the wineskin. After a big gulp of soothing wine, he leaned back against the stall, eyes drifting closed as he pondered.

Even though he'd only heard the slave speak one sentence, he was certain that Kation was actually a girl. Any unsuspecting individual would at least assume that if the slave was a boy, he had been castrated. The voice was too smooth, and the face was far too feminine when framed by that long, silky hair. She may be able to fool most with that utterly uninspiring body and the deepened voice, but he knew Tristan better than anyone else in the fort and there was no way Kahedin was buying this. But his friend clearly had his reasons for this elaborate deception, far be it from Kahedin to sabotage his plans…

A noise broke his reverie. It was a small, slithering noise that made all the hairs on his arms and neck stand on end. "Who's there?" he called out sharply. The noise abruptly stopped. That made him even more suspicious; he stoppered the wine and got to his feet, not bothering to mask the rustling of straw against his clothes. The other person also moved, but Kahedin didn't hear the pounding of running feet. But no one belonged here at this time of night.

Staying in the shadows, he peeked over Patias' stall and saw a slender figure standing in front of Sarakos. He recognised the outsized grey tunic and long black hair that gleamed slightly in the moonlight.

"What are you doing here?" he said sharply, stepping out of Patias' stall and marching over to the slave, who turned around to stare up at him.

"I was checking on Sarakos." He (or she) said, in that smooth, effeminate voice that was so out of place. Like everything else about him.

"In the middle of the night?" Kahedin said incredulously.

"My master gave me dispensation," Kation said, not fidgeting under the hard stare. "That is all I require."

"Hmm, and what does your master require from you?" he asked. So much for mulling things over with some wine – he could simply try to catch the slave out here and now. "What are your daily responsibilities?"

"All the usual duties, sir. Nothing more."

Kahedin stepped even closer. "Do they include fulfilling his needs?"

Kation's eyes narrowed slightly, "No."

"But it's odd for a man like Tristan to buy a beautiful, educated boy like you – why would he do such a thing, when he has no need for someone like you?"

"It is not my place to question my master." The slave said stubbornly, but those grey eyes were blazing. Kahedin knew for certain then that this was not just a normal sex slave – Kation wasn't even a normal scribe. He had never seen a slave stare so boldly. "Please, if you will excuse—" he tried to move around Kahedin, but the knight stepped in front of him. Startled, the slave stumbled backwards and fell against the door of Sarakos' stable, his eyes wide.

Kahedin sighed and grabbed the front of the boy's outer tunic, hauling him upright with little effort. "That won't do, boy." He admonished. "Tristan does not accept failure from anyone. Honour him by being as fearless and dutiful as he is."

The slave's expression never broke as he pulled himself from Kahedin's grip. He then bowed slightly – an odd thing to do – and turned away. "Yes, sir." He said softly over his shoulder, and then disappeared up to the knights' rooms.

Kahedin noticed the slight limp, but didn't bother himself about it. It only made the child seem even more vulnerable.

And suddenly the wine didn't seem like such an appealing prospect after all. With a regretful sigh he went back to Patias, retrieved the wineskin, and wandered up to his room. He resolved to have a quiet word Tristan and his mysterious slave, and at least tell them that he wouldn't betray them, no matter what the secret was.

* * *

By the time I made it back to Tristan's room, I was one part exhausted, and two parts brimming with terror in anticipation of Kahedin confronting me with the truth. He knew, I was sure of it. My 'master' didn't seem all that surprised to see me return so quickly, but I didn't feel like explaining. Instead, I kicked off my boots and then stripped off my outer tunics and sash.

"Move over," I commanded, pushing my hair out of my eyes as I glared down the knight, who stayed exactly where he was: right in the middle of the bed.

"Fine!" I ground out, and grabbed the spare blanket from the open trunk and lying down beside him, wrapping myself up in it. When I say 'beside him', I mean _right _beside him. We'd have been snuggling if there weren't several blankets in the way. I faced away from him again and gritted my teeth against the urge to hit him repeatedly. Selfish, selfish bastard. I'd tell him about the surprise encounter with Kahedin tomorrow morning and ruin his day.

* * *

I was awoken by the anaemic light of dawn the next morning. Sometime in the night, I had cuddled against Tristan for warmth – how utterly mortifying. I quickly got up and washed in the pail of water by the window before putting on my outer black tunic and tying the sash around my hips. The knife lay where I had dropped it on top of my boots, and I picked it up, wondering if it was alright if I kept it.

Probably not.

I tugged on my boots and stuffed the knife into my sash. Until Tristan wrestled it from me, I might as well keep it.

"Wake up." I said, and kicked the bedframe. Tristan's eyes shot open and he glared at me.

"There are nicer ways of doing such things." He grumbled. I ignored to rebuke and helped him sit up.

"You need to shave – that beard is horrid." I said, and turned to fetch the dish of water, soap and razor. I tested the razor with my thumb and found its edge to be lethally sharp. "Can you do it, or shall I?" I said, "I must warn you, I have never used one of these before."

Tristan hastily snatched the razor from my hand and the movement seemed to pain him. "Just get some hot water." He said shortly.

"Where can I find that?" I asked.

Tristan sighed, not bothering to hide his irritation. "Go down to the stables, there is a small well in the outer courtyard. Then, fetch one of the braziers from the equipment room and bring it back here with the water. If you cannot find any of these things, ask either Amandus or Mato, but do not bother Jols. Do you understand?"

I rolled my eyes and nodded. "Yeah, yeah… see you in a second." It wasn't cold outside, so I didn't deem it necessary to wear the baggy poncho-like outer tunic when I left.

We must have been early risers, because apart from the two bustling stable hands and a harassed-looking stablemaster there seemed to be no one around. Did the knights really have nothing to get up for? I could hear the regular soldiers charging around the fort, clearly busy with morning duties, and resolved to at least make Tristan a useful member of the community once he was back on his feet. It wouldn't have surprised me if someone said that they thought the knights were a bunch of arrogant layabouts. It was only by the time I had fetched the water and found a brazier that wasn't broken, that a few of the knights had appeared and wandered off to find food. I stayed hidden, determined to be not seen or heard, and then quickly made my way back to Tristan's room.

He was still sitting up when I returned, and seemed surprised that I had managed to carry it all up on my own in one go.

"You'll find wood and kindling in the empty room at the end of the row. My flints are in that saddlebag." He said, pointing to one of the bags tossed on top of a trunk that I had pulled the blanket out of.

After setting everything up (it was fairly self-explanatory, after all) I spent the longest time trying to make a decent spark using the flints. Cursing in 21st Century Finnish (the joys of attending university – you meet so many interesting people), I finally managed to get the kindling burning. I turned to grin at Tristan in triumph and he managed the deceased relative of a smile in response. This guy needed to loosen up a little and actually laugh (and not in the sadistic, bloodcurdling way that I suspected he usually did).

Once the water was heated I helped Tristan to move to the chair.

"I'll get you a fresh tunic," I said helpfully, leaving him to his shaving. I finally found a dull red one that seemed more patches and clumsy repairs than actual cloth, but if he kept it then he could wear it. I waited until he had finished shaving, then threw it at his head, clearing away the shaving things and feeding the fire. It was imperative that Tristan didn't catch a cold; he had to survive and suffer properly.

I was just preparing a light breakfast from the leftovers of Vanora's super-hamper when Gawain appeared in the doorway with a stranger standing just behind him.

I straightened, tucking my hands behind my back, and respectfully stared at the far wall, while Tristan merely turned his head to look at his visitors.

"Arthur," he breathed.

* * *

**Haha! Evil cliff-hanger.  
In the immortal words of Bugs Bunny: Ain't I a stinker? **

**Please keep reviewing – I need to know if I'm still writing up to your expectations. **


	7. Chapter 7

**I have no *real* excuses for this lateness, except that I got into a Reading Phase, rather than a Writing Phase. And although this was ready ages ago – I wanted to check, and re-check. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one who you saw in that distinguished movie that we all love. But *all* OCs are *mine* (poor, longsuffering creatures).**

* * *

GAWAIN: 

He had given them most of the morning to get themselves together before fetching Arthur. They deserved some leeway before being faced with the one man whose opinion really mattered on this gods-forsaken lump of land at the end of the world.

Tristan was freshly shaved and wearing a clean tunic – a vast improvement over the state he'd been in yesterday, but he still looked tired and ill. Clearly Kation was going to be a wonderful influence on Tristan's appearance, if nothing else. Although how she had managed to look so fresh and neat with only a pan of water and a little soap available was beyond him. Must be a female thing. She was also doing her utmost to stand perfectly still as Arthur entered the room.

"Tristan," he said warmly. "I'm glad you are safe."

Tristan turned as best he could in the chair to look at his commanding officer and nodded. "I am only sorry I couldn't help Kay." He said, his hands clenched tightly around his knees. Gawain glanced slyly at the girl, who flicked those grey eyes to him for a mere moment before returning them to a space on the far wall while Tristan and Arthur talked.

He sidled closer and lounged against the wall behind her. "Hey, how did you sleep?" he asked in an undertone.

"Well enough." She replied in a low whisper. "But he didn't move over, so I nearly fell off the bed more than once." She added bitterly.

Gawain bit the inside of his cheek to suppress his laugh as Arthur turned to look at Kation for the first time.

"So this is your slave?" he said, doubt colouring his tone. "What can he do?"

"Kation can read, write and is well-versed in mathematics." Tristan said, glaring at the girl from behind Arthur's back. "He's also very resourceful and accomplished with horses."

"Hmm, do you understand Greek?" Arthur asked the girl, who looked up at him fearlessly and nodded.

"My Latin is better."

If Arthur was at all surprised by the answer, or her 'masculine' voice, he didn't show it.

"If your master can spare you, I would appreciate your assistance with some minor administrative documents." He said, turning to look at Tristan, who nodded.

"You are too generous, sir," Kation said, bowing slightly.

Arthur grunted then caught Gawain's eye. "I would like to hear Tristan's report in private, Gawain. I hope you understand."

This was a well-known code: whenever Arthur wanted to have a private conversation about personal matters with a knight, he always made a reference to a 'private report'. Gawain grinned and straightened.

"Of course, I'll take the boy off for the morning." He said cheerfully. "Shall I send Dagonet or the Medicus over to see to Tristan?"

Arthur nodded. "Ask someone to stop by after lunch – this report may take some time." And although his expression was business-like, there was a familiar unsettling light in his eyes that said he was feeling quite impassioned about something.

Gawain ignored the slightly desperate look in the scout's eyes as he dragged Kation from the room, snagging her grey tunic from the top of the trunk as he went. "We'll bring some lunch later." He promised, and fled, scooping Kation up into his arms the moment he closed the door behind them to facilitate a faster retreat.

"What was that about?" Kation whispered as Gawain set her down next to Tagiytei's stall a few moments later.

"Oh nothing much; Arthur just wants to lecture Tristan about something. My guess is it's something to do with buying a beautiful male slave and indulging in wanton, sordid practises." He winked at her. "Nothing too dreadful. Arthur can never bring himself to properly upbraid someone who's wounded, especially one of us."

"So what shall we do all morning?" she asked, stroking Tagiytei's nose as he leaned over the stall to greet her.

"What about seeing just how good you are on that horse?" Gawain said speculatively.

Kation looked from Tagiytei to Gawain and grinned. "Sure."

As she brushed Tagiytei, Gawain re-checked the saddle and bridle for damage. "The tack is fine, but you may need to reconsider the stirrups – they'll be way too long for you."

"Just make them as short as possible, I don't mind riding long." She said as she combed the horse's mane and tail. "But if you could lend me a hand, this'll be done a lot faster."

"He's not going out on parade," Gawain protested. "Besides, he'll kill me if I get any closer without you holding his head."

"Oh alright, shall I put his bridle on now? His face is clean." She leaned over the stall and took the proffered bridle with a nod of thanks and turned back to Tagiytei, who obediently lowered his head.

"I'll put the saddle on him out here – it'll be too high for you." Gawain said generously.

"Thanks," she smiled a little, clearly appreciating his kindness, and led the horse out. This was the most amiable Gawain had ever seen her. Tagiytei was unhappy about being saddled by anyone other than Tristan, but Kation hung onto his head and soothed the volatile horse with gentle caresses while Gawain heaved at the girth. How she had such power over this monstrous animal, the knight couldn't say – but it certainly was remarkable.

"Right, he's ready. You'll need a boost." He said, trying to conceal his eagerness to see her do battle with Tristan's horse. She already had Sarakos under her spell – but would Tagiytei co-operate? Gawain half-wished that there was another knight here to witness a potentially historic moment.

Right on cue, Galahad appeared around the corner. "What's going on?" he asked.

"Kation's going to ride Tagiytei around the pen, would you like to watch?" Gawain asked sweetly. Galahad moved over to the horse and held it steady, while Gawain gripped Kation's shin and lifted her up into the saddle. At precisely the same moment, Galahad was forced to leap away as Tagiytei lashed out with his forelegs, clearly angry at all the strangers crowding him.

Kation, barely in the saddle and very unbalanced, gripped the reins and hauled him back into order with a loud "Tch!" The horse stopped his attack, but pawed at the ground impatiently. The two knights cautiously moved forwards again.

"Good grief; if you survive this, you'll be able to ride anything," Galahad breathed. It was the nicest thing he'd ever said to Kation, despite Gawain's efforts to soften his opinion of the girl.

Kation wriggled her toes into the stirrups and tested their length. "These are a little longer than I'd have liked," she admitted, dropping her voice into 'boy tones' once more. "But I'll manage."

Gawain nodded. "Follow me then," he led her to the large rectangular pen that was located near the paddocks just outside the fort's walls. With high, strong fences, it was mostly used by Jols and other horse masters when training youngsters.

Kation walked the horse into the pen and then started to trot him around the outer edge, sitting deep in the saddle as if glued to the leather, her entire being was focused on the horse. Gawain had never seen someone ride so… intensely. She turned the horse in a tight circle, and the horse kicked out, tossing his head in anger. Girl and horse then descended into a battle for control, and every time the horse reared or bucked Kation simply kicked him on, ignoring the bad behaviour.

"Be serious about this!" Galahad shouted angrily. "Don't let him do that!"

"My people do not believe that hurting someone will ever serve to win their co-operation, sir." Kation murmured, walking Tagiytei round, the reins loosely held in her hand, temporarily having gained the upper hand from their most recent bout. The horse was finally listening to every little signal she was giving him. Secure in her victory, she urged the horse into a canter, coaxing him into increasingly slow, controlled movements until Tagiytei looked like he was dancing.

"Alright, I think that's enough – you can ride out on Sarakos with me after lunch." Galahad said, surprising Gawain immensely.

"That's practically the olive branch, coming from you." He said, unable to help himself.

"Well… he _is _good with horses." Galahad conceded. "Even if he is a corrupted little sweet," he added with a scowl.

"Did you ever think," Gawain said, finally losing patience with at the teenager he considered a brother, "that he might not have been given a choice in the matter?" The words seemed to quell the fight in Galahad, at least temporarily, as Kation walked Tagiytei to the gate and Gawain let them out.

They walked back to the stables in stony silence until Galahad finally spoke. "I won't go easy on you."

"Of course, sir." Kation said respectfully.

"So, this is the little sweeting!" A voice familiar voice drawled out as they entered the inner yard. Gawain and Galahad turned to see Gaheris and Kahedin sauntering over to them. Now that was very odd indeed – it was common knowledge that those two knights normally couldn't stand the sight of each other. It was one of the reasons why Arthur was so careful when allocating the patrol rotas.

Gaheris was wearing his usual expression of predatory anticipation. Right then, it made Gawain's skin crawl. He may not have formally sworn to protect the girl, but in that instant he knew that he wouldn't leave Kation alone anywhere near the tall pale knight.

'_Tristan was right… we've all been so blind.' _He thought dazedly, as he saw the way Gaheris leered up at the girl.

"Well, this means I'll have to trust Tristan from now on – the child can work miracles after all." Kahedin drawled, walking right up to Tagiytei, who immediately tried to bite him. The lean scout danced back with a chuckle. "Still not completely tamed, though."

Gaheris leaned against a pillar, chewing a grass stem. "I'm not sure Tristan will appreciate you trying to break his toy, Gawain – he may want to _play_ with it later." He snickered as Kation masterfully wheeled the horse away as it lunged aggressively at Galahad, who'd moved forward in a bid to help bring Tagiytei under control.

"In my current condition, what you are suggesting might finish the job the Woads started." A voice, thick with fury, said from behind them.

They all whipped around, and saw possibly the most terrifying sight they could have imagined: Tristan, in all his half-dead glory, glowering at them from the stairs in a very passable impression of a waking nightmare. Worse still, Arthur was beside him.

Gawain moaned, cringing under the weight of Tristan's glare. "I'll never see Sarmatia again…"

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" Galahad said, trying to get the attention away from Tristan's intended victim, Gawain, and onto more urgent matters.

Both Tristan and Arthur ignored the youngest knight, taking a moment to silently observe Kation as she leapt down from Tagiytei and dragged him into the stall, limping on her bad foot. The stallion followed her, meek as a lamb, despite his attempts to savage the knights only moments ago.

"Not if that little chick's going to follow him there – it would be a rather ignoble end for the mighty knight, don't you think?" Gaheris laughed and then with a final glance in Kation's direction, he wandered over to Arthur and leaned in to murmur something softly in his commander's ear. Arthur nodded and shrugged, eliciting a predatory grin from Gaheris, which he turned on Gawain. "I think we need to keep them apart for his own good." He added, running his tongue over his teeth.

Gawain had always found that a disgusting habit – it reminded him of a wolf licking its chops. He didn't bother to hide his feelings from his face as Gaheris walked away, and he noticed that Tristan looked similarly irritated. Or maybe he was simply feeling light-headed from being out of bed for so long… was he running a fever?

"Master," a husky little voice called. "Please go back to bed! You are not well!" it was Kation, leaning over Tagiytei's stall and looking slightly panicked. Kahedin was leaning against a pillar nearby, holding the saddle and clearly amused by the whole scene.

"Gawain – I need you to send someone to fetch Dagonet or the Medicus to see to Tristan now. Galahad, please take him back to his room and make him stay there." Arthur ordered, taking control of the situation once more.

The knights rushed to obey his orders, Gawain bypassed the option of a third party to locate Dagonet, and decided to fetch their healer back himself. He really didn't want to hang around and suffer Tristan's fury more than he inevitably would.

* * *

TRISTAN: (flashback)

Arthur had been surprisingly fervent and voluble about the sinful nature of Tristan's slave. As soon as Gawain had dragged Kation out, Arthur had crossed his arms in that particular way of his which only spoke of disapproval.

"You were my last hope," he sighed, his tone one of utter despair.

The words stunned Tristan, and he threw his commanding officer an incredulous look.

"You were the only one… who wasn't…" and here Arthur blushed.

… _Blushed_.

Tristan was even more worried. "I wasn't…?"

"You weren't a debaucher!" Arthur said dejectedly. "I know that as pagans, Sarmatians' ideas of such things are different to Christian standards, but you seemed so uninterested in… well, anything! And I thought you were my one chaste knight who would never cause me embarrassment."

Tristan, thoroughly bewildered, felt he ought to defend himself. "Arthur, you know as well as any man here that I have occasionally been with women from the village. I am hardly chaste, although I can see how such an impression might arise when compared to men like Lancelot. I think you have been mistakenly heeding perverse rumours from that man with regards to my slave."

Arthur coloured again, proving the suspicion correct. But he soldiered on in the face of Tristan's calm logic. "But this is unnatural! It's too much! You are corrupting an innocent boy in your heinous pursuit of carnal pleasure!"

Tristan fought the urge to laugh at the absurdity of Arthur's words. "I hardly think a healthy interest…" he began, but Arthur was on a roll and would not stop until he had said all he meant to say.

"There is 'healthy interest', and then there are the rampaging beasts known as Sarmatian knights! You will never get to heaven if you do such sinful things!" he said, and the final words were more of an agonised whimper than an impassioned plea upon Tristan's dubious moral character.

"Arthur!" Tristan said, raising his voice slightly. The half-Roman seemed to be jerked from his slightly frenzied state and looked almost ashamed of himself. "I am _not _interested in boys!"

"So why did you buy him?" Arthur pleaded.

"I thought that there was more to him than just writing and a pretty face. After the attack he proved to be very resourceful and quick-witted – he saved my life."

"Do you think he will do well here?" Arthur said, the rational part of his mind taking over once more, although Tristan could see it was a tremendous effort.

"I think between helping you, running errands and attending to me, he will be too busy to ever cause us worry." Tristan tried to inject some strength into his voice. It seemed to work on hardening Arthur's resolve to be kind to Kation and his confidence in his knight's judgement. But the scout felt hollow and tired at the thought of chasing after the girl and making sure she kept out of trouble.

"And he sleeps…?"

Tristan sighed; if he answered truthfully, then Arthur would lose all goodwill and probably order Tristan to free the girl at once. So he had to tell just one, very blatant lie. "He sleeps on the floor, like a little animal." He said, with an accusing look.

"Oh, well that's alright then." Arthur said with a satisfied nod.

* * *

KAHEDIN: 

He followed the slave because he had nothing better to do, and it meant he didn't have to look at Gaheris – always a good thing. Kation hastily untacked the horse and threw the saddle onto the stall door. It was sheer bad luck that they had both decided to head to the stables at exactly the same time.

"Scraper… sponge…" the slave muttered, clearly a little flustered as he looked about for the items in question.

Kahedin took pity on him. "In the tack room. Shall I get a bucket of water?" he asked.

Kation shot him a grateful look and went to fetch them, the saddle and bridle tucked under one arm.

And another piece of the puzzle fell into place. If the child really had been a slave his whole life, then he would have been confused by the offer of help from a freeborn knight. Instead, he had simply affirmed that Kahedin's assistance would be welcome. Now all that remained was to ascertain the slave's true gender and he would have more than enough to confront Tristan with.

Kahedin looked around for a spare bucket and filled it from the well in the outer courtyard, dumping it as close to Tagiytei's stall as he could get while staying out of biting range. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure that Gawain knew something too. The easy, confident way he'd talked with Tristan and Kation, despite his natural trepidation in the face of Tristan's wrath, suggested a degree of knowledge that the rest of them were not privy to.

So he had thought to tell a fool like Gawain the secret? Was it even that important? Kahedin resolved to get the truth from the slave as soon as possible – even if he had to strip Kation naked.

When the youth returned, Kahedin handed him the bucket and watched as the boy washed the horse of sweat and grime. The slave was clearly very fond of horses, because he barely glanced at Kahedin while he worked.

Once he was finished, and Tagiytei had finished trying to knock over his water and eat Kation's hair (he'd got a smack on the nose for his efforts), the slave tiredly shut the horse in his stall and managed to walk straight into Kahedin.

Perfect. He caught Kation by the upper arms and squeezed tightly, eliciting a small intake of breath and a confused glare.

"Come now," he said reasonably. "I wouldn't hurt my friend's slave – I just want to talk to your master."

* * *

He knew! Sweet Lord of the Custard he knew! My head was spinning as he dragged me up to Tristan's room and I just knew that my master was going to kill me when Kahedin confronted him! As I was biting back a hysterical sob at the thought of my mutilated remains reviving in a ditch, I collided abruptly with Tristan's door that Kahedin slammed me against. Seeing stars, I was too dazed to do anything as the knight tucked me against his side once more and opened the door.

My master was lying in bed and staring at us in a mixture of surprise and extreme annoyance. Galahad had already left, which spared us an unenlightened audience, at least.

"What are you doing?" Tristan growled, wearing a particularly surly expression as he sat up.

Kahedin shoved me to the floor and loomed over my ticket to survival. I was pleased that I could at least think of him as a sort of boss, even if 'master' was stretching it way too far. He was like some sort of really irritating social reject that I'd been told to work with. But when I saw Kahedin reach down to grab the front of Tristan's tunic, I'll admit that my instincts took over.

I launched myself at the knight's back and knocked him down onto Tristan so we were in a sprawled tangle on the bed. I wrapped my arms around Kahedin's neck and tried to pry him off my only trustworthy ally.

Instead, a pair of hands grabbed the back of my tunic and hair (ouch!) to haul me off Kahedin, who was half-strangled as we were both dragged off Tristan. My tattooed friend was grimacing in pain, not paying attention as my unseen assailant let go of my tunic (but not my head) and gripped my arm, wrenching it off Kahedin's throat.

I went limp, knowing that very bad things were in my immediate future anyway, and to continue throttling a knight would only make said bad things worse.

* * *

GAWAIN:

As he fetched Dagonet away from the medical rooms, Gawain recalled the whispered conversation he'd had with Tristan while Kation had been dozing in the fort's hospital. They had been trying to predict how the knights would react to Kation.

"_Lancelot will make lots of crude jokes," Tristan prophesied. _

_Gawain didn't negate the truth. "Dagonet will take it in his stride; Kahedin will probably see straight through it, fancy her rotten, flirt like a whore, and never touch her. And he likes __women__…"_

"_That man's such a pest," Tristan growled, as if he wasn't talking about his closest friend. Gawain laughed. _

"… _and Gaheris will probably try to gain her trust, while saying crude things to you." _

"_If she's got any sense she'll find him as annoying as everyone else does." _

"_Oh come on, he's not that bad…" _

"_Remember the time we found him in the woods after the battle…?" Tristan said ominously. _

_Gawain shot a quick look across the room and was relieved to see Kation still dozing. "Yes I remember," he said quietly. "But we're not going to let another accident happen ever again." _

_Tristan snorted incredulously and Gawain suddenly felt a little foolish – of course it hadn't been an isolated 'accident'. How could such a thing be an accident? _

Seeing Gaheris' hungry expression earlier, Gawain knew that Tristan was right.

As they entered Tristan's rooms, Gawain and Dagonet were met with an unbelievable sight: Kahedin, slumped across Tristan, with the girl on his back trying to strangle him. Without speaking, both knights immediately sprang into action.

After a few seconds struggle separating all three combatants, Gawain was left holding the girl by her hair, while Dagonet had sat Kahedin in the chair to check his throat. The girl grunted and writhed, reminding him he still had a painfully tight grip on her, and he instantly let go. She sprang to Tristan, positioning herself between Tristan and Kahedin. She was looking openly dangerous, even if she was unarmed and absolutely tiny compared to everyone else in the room.

It was like watching a kitten fluff itself up and hiss at a dog.

Kahedin, however, growled – literally growled – at her. "Little monster." He hissed, and then broke into a grin, waving Dagonet off. Clearly he admired her spirit.

Kation's eyes narrowed a fraction, and she dipped her chin, levelling a murderous look at him.

"Tristan, if you can speak, what on earth happened?" Dagonet asked, walking over to check his friend's wounds.

"I have no idea. They just burst in here and threw themselves on me." The scout winced as Dagonet prodded his wounded shoulder.

"He was threatening you." Kation said softly, still glaring at Kahedin, who was watching her with that amiable expression that only meant he knew something he was very pleased about. Gawain felt a twinge of trepidation in his gut.

"No he wasn't!" Tristan said, and Gawain detected a note of frustration in his voice. "I trust him."

"If you really trusted me, you would have told me what was going on!" Kahedin broke in, his annoyed tone not matching the smile he was still wearing. Gawain had the distinct impression that the younger of the two scouts was feeling hurt at the lack of faith.

Dagonet looked at Gawain, an eyebrow raised in confused exasperation. It was unusual for Tristan to bicker with anyone, let alone Kahedin. Usually these two were the last knights to create a scene of this sort. Gawain shrugged and crossed his arms with a sigh.

"I bought a slave – what more is there to say?" Tristan ground out.

Kahedin was about to retort, but then realised that they had an audience and closed his mouth with an almost audible snap. He leaned back with a huff and glared out of the window. Kation, sensing a temporary truce, relaxed slightly and moved away from Tristan to lean against the wall, dragging a hand through her hair and looking more tired and annoyed than both scouts combined.

Gawain sympathised: dealing with one of them was tough, but being caught between the two? Nightmarish.

* * *

TRISTAN: 

The girl was insane. Kahedin was the least of his troubles now, despite being too maddening for words. And now he looked like he might start asking some pointed questions… The one blessing on his ruined day was that Dagonet seemed uninterested in anything except Tristan's injuries.

"Why did you have to throw yourself on him?" the giant man rumbled at Kahedin. "You've set his recovery back by at least a week's more bed-rest. I know he's like a brother to you, but try to control yourself."

Kahedin, unwilling to take the blame, pointed at the slave with a smile. "Actually, I was just standing there – it was the boy who threw himself at me, and we both fell on Tristan."

Dagonet shook his head in despair and rubbed some cool salve onto Tristan's inflamed shoulder, which caused the girl to wince for some reason. But she said nothing and kept an eye on Kahedin while watching what Dagonet did.

A few moments later, Dagonet gave her a small bag. "This has medicines in it – this pot will prevent infection; the leaves must be stewed in hot water and he must drink it at least once a day." He instructed. The girl nodded and carefully held the bag in both hands, then cast an openly concerned glance at Tristan. Dagonet visibly melted at the pitiful look, and placed a big hand on her head comfortingly.

"He'll be fine – just don't jump on him until he's better." He teased. The girl coloured, and Tristan could only admire her acting skills. She was terrifyingly deceptive. Dagonet then looked at Tristan with a hard, unwavering gaze. "And you," he said in a tone of unmitigated authority. "Are to take it easy – no strenuous activities or stress on your wounds."

Tristan nodded, but didn't say anything. It was what Dagonet always said and sometimes he paid attention to it. But right then, all Tristan wanted to do was sleep – and it wasn't yet lunchtime.

"Well I have other things to do." Dagonet said, addressing the room at large. "Don't hesitate to fetch me if Tristan needs anything." He nodded to the other knights, and left.

Gawain sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as Kahedin stood up, gearing himself up for a confrontation. But the long-haired knight intercepted him as he made to walk over to Tristan again, and dragged him to the door. "Don't worry," he said over his shoulder. "We're just going to fetch everyone lunch and bring it back."

Tristan didn't feel like this was exactly mercy, but could concede that Gawain had bought them a bit more time.

The girl put the medicine on the small table and sighed, turning back to him with a weary expression. "Kahedin suspects me, in case you hadn't worked that out already. Are you going to tell him? Because if not, then he's likely to start tearing my clothes off in an effort to learn the truth."

Tristan grimaced at the idea, but realised she had a point. If Kahedin knew, and then allayed their deception, it would certainly put everyone else off the scent – after all, if it seemed that the two scouts didn't suspect anything, then the rest of the fort had no reason to say a word.

He voiced this idea to Kation, who shrugged. "I don't care," she sighed, walking over to the window and looking out of it. "I just want to avoid being raped to death."

"Unlikely. Why don't you sleep? Between us, Gawain and I will explain things to Kahedin."

The girl shook her head, stubbornly stifling a yawn. "I don't trust either of them." She mumbled, blinking hard to wake herself up.

"You should learn to, rascal. They're good men."

"I'm not a rascal." She huffed. "I'm your slave, who didn't get a lot of sleep last night. When am I getting my own bed?"

"As soon as you deserve one." Tristan replied promptly.

"Whatever." She grunted, and began to pace around the room again. "How long are they going to be?"

"Not much longer." Tristan replied. "But if you are tired, then sleep. I will watch over you."

"Will you wake me when they come back?" she asked, moving back to the bed again – she looked more than a little apprehensive.

"I think they will make enough noise to wake the dead, much less you."

"Will you wake me?" she repeated stubbornly.

Tristan felt slightly pleased by her grudging sign of trust and nodded.

The girl seemed to relax slightly, and sank onto the bed next to Tristan's legs and curled into a ball with another yawn. Tristan noticed that her hair would benefit from a comb and silently resolved to buy her one. It could be a peace offering of sorts; with this in mind, he spontaneously reached over and ruffled her hair. She ducked away, scowling, and Tristan smiled slightly as the room descended into a companionable silence for the first time ever.

* * *

**So… you like? Please, please let me know - I will respond to all reviews by PM, so don't be afraid. I am a nice person really – just very mad. **


	8. Chapter 8

**This is a ****very**** long chapter. The (nefarious) reason being that all updates will be much rarer and slower over the next six weeks. This in turn is because of (but paid!) work in the real world. **

**Please do not despair, faithful readers, I will return. And please don't hate me ****too ****much in my absence.**

* * *

Gawain kicked the door open, because his arms were laden with food parcels. Kahedin was equally burdened with wine and water. I pretended to sleep. My hair had fallen over my face enough to hide my eyes, and I observed them through the (for once _useful_) veil.

"Asleep?" Gawain asked quietly, nodding in my direction. Tristan, oblivious to the truth, laid his hand gently on my head and must have nodded, because Gawain sighed and smiled. "Cute."

Oh, Gawain was toast. As soon as I 'woke up', I was going to strangle him. Instead, I played up the 'cuteness' factor as much as possible and snuffled against my arms. Gawain's expression became slightly gooey. How old did he think I was?

Tristan's hand stroked my hair and he said gruffly: "Wake up, rascal." And the stroke turned into a ruffle.

I jerked 'awake' and sat up quickly. "Mmph." I said, pushing my hair out of my face with a grimace. I was still tired, so sleepiness wasn't hard to fake.

"Clearly you're even uglier upon waking – I feel sorry for the girls at the tavern." Kahedin bit out, glaring at me, despite directing the insult at Gawain. I pretended not to notice as Gawain aimed a kick at the slighter man and turned a questioning look at Tristan.

"Lunch." He explained. I climbed off the bed helped him lean back more comfortably against the pillows before helping Gawain unpack the food. It was another feast – enough for six men.

"Are we telling him?" Gawain whispered at me, referring to Kahedin's suspicions. I shrugged helplessly and took some bread and fruit to Tristan.

"I promise, I'll treat those wounds after lunch." I said quietly. He nodded and it was then that I felt the rough hand glide along the small of my back. Unfortunately, instinct took over in that instant, and I straightened, turning sharply to glare up at Kahedin.

This man was going to die. Painfully. Very soon.

"Don't touch me." I hissed, my voice little more than a whisper as I ducked past him to stand near Gawain again.

"Aren't you going to tell me?" I heard him say to Tristan.

Gawain shot me an openly concerned look. "Oh dear… the whole fort will find out at this rate," he murmured, shaking his head at me. "You're too obvious."

"Any way to make it less obvious?" I whispered through gritted teeth.

"We can cut your hair," he suggested.

"You'll have to kill me first," I said, like it was something that could only happen once and be permanent.

Gawain looked me over critically and then shook his head. "Sorry, that's probably the only thing that can be done. Unless you try to grow a beard."

I winced at the mental image that swam into mind and then punched Gawain on the arm. He laughed and ruffled my hair.

Oh no… I was not going to be their plaything! I scowled, and tried to calm myself with the mental image of Gawain's broken and bleeding form under my boot heel when Kahedin brought our attention squarely back to him.

"That's all?" he laughed. "And to think I was worried about you…" he turned newly enlightened eyes onto me, and re-examined my appearance. Then they lingered on my chest.

"Washboard," Gawain murmured behind me, and I could just _hear _the regret.

Pervert bastards.

What exactly did Tristan tell him? And why was my distinct lack of a chest such a big deal?

"No one else can know." Tristan growled. "You are the last – understand? Just the five of us."

Kahedin looked confused. "Five?"

"Vanora." Gawain explained.

"Oh… yes… I see…" Kahedin shifted uncomfortably, clearly thinking of periods and then brightened slightly, having thought of something else. "Well, at least that's cleared up – I was almost ready to strip you naked to find out for myself." He said, winking at me. I crossed my arms defensively and glared.

This guy was such a jerk. At least as bad as Gawain.

We ate lunch in relative silence, with Kahedin and Gawain moaning about duty rotas and Tristan offering the occasional pointed question (he wasn't nearly as silent as I'd been led to believe – just crushingly practical). I sat apart from them, feeling uninvited to the conversation and now almost deliberately dismissed; not only as someone pretending to be a slave, but also as a woman. Because women, of course, weren't allowed to take part in men's business.

I nibbled on the bread and cheese that I'd snagged from the basket, and then tugged off my boot to check my foot. They were tall and supple, allowing full range of movement in my ankles and toes. Really, I ought to have another two pairs made. This is where my feminine side comes out: if it's good enough to talk about, have several copies.

Amazingly, my wound was looking better – almost completely closed. My recovery time must be better than most. Did this have something to do with the freaky powers that dastardly God of Cloud-Cuckoo-Land gave me? I also knew I would have to do a controlled test of how long it took me to revive from death. Just a bump on the head or knife through the heart. It would hurt like hell and wasn't pleasant _at all _but it had to be done. And I had sort of become used to it… as extraordinarily dysfunctional and sick as that sounds. It's just a shame there was no lightning like in _Highlander_. I'd have fitted in there – why couldn't I have been sent to late 90s, Highlander-verse Paris instead?

I was jerked from my self-pitying thoughts by Kahedin of all people, crouching down in front of me. He looked… chagrined. I was instantly suspicious.

"Yes?" I said, no longer affecting my boy voice – which was a relief – as I tugged my boot back on.

"I…" he rubbed his lower lip, clearly feeling embarrassed. "I'm sorry I behaved like that…"

I stopped the apology dead with an emphatic gesture. "No. Don't be sorry – you were smart enough to spot something was wrong. Don't regret your own intelligence." My expression must have been a little too hard, because when I smiled (a little bitterly, I'll admit – who likes being caught out in a lie?) he looked surprised and relieved.

"No hard feelings then?"

"For what?" I said.

"This." And without any further warning, he groped my non-existent chest.

I kicked him squarely in the gut, sending him tumbling back onto his rear. What did I have to do for these morons to take me seriously? Kill someone?

"Just had to make sure…" he wheezed between pained chuckles. I leapt to my feet and managed to land another kick to his ribs before Gawain hauled me off in a bear-hug from behind.

"Careful kitten, don't hurt our other scout as well." He chuckled, carrying me away from my intended victim and plopping me onto the bed next to Tristan, who kicked his uninjured leg over my lap to pin me there.

"Despite multiple provocations, I have yet to injure Tristan for all the grief he's given me. So Kahedin's blood will suffice for now!" I gritted out, ready to fling Tristan's leg aside and renew my attack.

"What grief?" Gawain asked, puzzled. "You two act like siblings."

Tristan and I threw each other dubious looks.

Oh what delusions Gawain must have laboured under all this time… I _almost_ felt sorry for him.

"No. We don't get on at all." Tristan said evenly.

I nodded slowly. "It's a relationship of pure exploitation. He keeps me alive, and I don't tell anyone that he hit me while I was trying to keep _him_ alive as we ran from the Woads."

"He what?" Gawain roared. Oh, so someone was above slapping women. How refreshing. I turned raised eyebrows back to Tristan.

"So you don't teach women manners that way?" I asked innocently.

If looks could kill…

"Where we come from, our women would fill us with arrows if we tried such a thing." Kahedin said, shaking his head at Tristan.

"You have no idea how annoying she is," Tristan sighed. "But you will."

I thumped his leg crossly and flung it off, standing abruptly. "I'm going for a walk," I snapped, straightening my tunic and made for the door, as Gawain looked like he was gearing himself up for a truly epic lecture on women's rights – which were not going to be invented for another fifteen hundred years, if this universe was anything like mine.

"I'll come with you," Kahedin said eagerly, making to follow. I turned sharply and raised my fist, inviting him to walk into it. He jerked back sharply, but grinned in that maddening way of his.

"No. Where I come from 'going for a walk' means 'I want to be alone'."

"Why didn't you say so, then?" Kahedin asked. And I just knew he wasn't being facetious. Damn him. You can't hit the ignorant too often.

I managed to internalise my scream of rage so far that it turned into an eye-roll and a sigh. Kahedin didn't seem undeterred, though.

"How will you protect yourself?"

"By not causing a scene." I gritted out, and I ducked out of the room, leaving Kahedin to referee the shouting match between Tristan and Gawain.

* * *

KAHEDIN: 

He was about to turn back and insist that she not stray far – because really, Tristan didn't seem concerned _enough_, despite her tough attitude. A weapon would have been a cute touch, but really – she was tiny! Did she really think that glare would freeze an attacker in their tracks?

And what was _he_ thinking in following her?

As Kahedin watched her march out of the stables, he rubbed his now aching ribs and mused that maybe she was a little more violent than he had originally thought. And she certainly kicked like she meant it.

He trailed her at a distance, making excellent use of various stalls and buildings for cover as he watched her walk purposefully, but randomly through the fort. In fact, Kahedin had to admit that the girl was practically a ghost; she moved with a subtle fluidity that did not draw one's attention. They repeated several streets before she finally walked up the steps to the top of the fort walls. Her long hair caught in the wind and lifted into the air like a black pennant. She seemed oblivious to the curious stares that the guards sent her way, and leaned against the stone, staring out into the forest beyond the Wall. Kahedin settled in for a long wait, and he was utterly correct in his estimation. They must have been there hours. What the hell was she thinking about?

When she finally straightened and began walking back down the steps, Kahedin couldn't see her face, which was obscured by a fall of her hair. She walked back, taking another circuitous route through the fort. Kahedin followed, and as he followed her through a low lean-to, he stepped out into an abandoned yard surrounded by soldiers' residential barracks. Where was she?

He listened, and then turned around, looking at the lean-to again. Nothing. She wasn't on the roof of the improvised structure, nor was she hiding in the shadows. He went back out into the street, and scanned the crowds and buildings.

Still nothing.

Where was she?

He didn't notice the dark shape on the barracks' roof silently watching him as he headed back to the Sarmatians' quarters, readying himself to confess to losing Tristan's life-keeper to her two guardians.

* * *

"What do you mean, lost her?" Gawain growled, shaking Kahedin by his collar a little more for emphasis.

"She disappeared. I had her in sight the whole time, and then… nothing. It was like she grew wings and flew." Kahedin didn't even try to slap Gawain's hands away. He deserved this. A scout of his calibre losing a little girl in a dead-end.

Unforgiveable.

Tristan was wearing that stone-faced expression that Kahedin knew was concealing his rage and worry. Kahedin was a dead man for sure, (a lifetime of friendship could be damned to Arthur's fiery abyss where a life-debt was concerned) unless the girl turned up—

"Hello."

A heavenly voice from above.

Or rather, the window. All three men whipped their heads round to see Kation's head peeking over the lip of the roof, upside down, staring at them all as her long hair trailed below her. Kahedin contemplated dragging her in by it, but knew Gawain (ever the nice one) would object.

She disappeared again, and then a pair of increasingly familiar boots appeared, hung there for a moment, and then the girl deftly dropped onto the window ledge.

Gawain went pale at the ease with which she defied disaster and swallowed, hauling her in before she had a chance to overbalance and fall.

"Don't do that!" he exclaimed, turning into some noisy version of an overprotective sibling as he checked her over for injuries. "You could have fallen!"

"I would have had to have been a real idiot to fail such a simple manoeuvre." She said, pushing him away.

Gawain stepped back, holding his hands up in surrender. "Fine, fine. But now we have to decide how to make your disguise more convincing – Lancelot can smell women a mile off, even if they are only fourteen years old."

"I'm twenty-one."

"What? _Really_?"

All three men were genuinely shocked.

"Forget looking like a boy, how on earth can we ever make you look like a _woman_?" Gawain said, horror struck.

"Twenty one…?" Kahedin repeated faintly. She didn't look anything near twenty-one.

"Are you married?" Tristan asked. It was a fair question. Almost all women were married by their mid-teens – and Kahedin didn't feel like trying to justify to some enraged husband why they had randomly abducted his wife from the woods.

The girl looked surprised and not a little disgusted. "No."

"Betrothed?" Tristan pressed.

"No. I already told you – no one is going to come looking for me. I am alone." She insisted.

Despite the reassurance, it somehow struck Kahedin as slightly sad. At least he had an entire tribe waiting for his safe return. And his fellow knights in the meantime substituted as a sort of family.

"And don't worry about the disguise – I'll be fine." She said, looking tired suddenly. "Since I'm the much-feared Tristan's personal slave, no one will get too close for fear of enraging him."

She had a point. A very good point. No man in his right mind (drunk or sober) would try to harass something that belonged to Tristan.

Kahedin caught the hint of admiration lighting his friend's eyes. Clearly the man was high on his own deadly reputation.

Gawain groaned. "But then what excuse do we have for spending time with you?" he asked plaintively. "I want to hear more stories."

The girl frowned at him. "What are you, five?"

"Twenty-four summers actually." Gawain replied, suddenly mock-haughty. "So respect your elders."

* * *

TRISTAN: 

Where had this all gone so wrong? One minute, his life had been a hard fight for survival every day. But at least it had been simple.

Now, the girl who had crashed into his life and turned his straightforward existence upside down – making him a pervert in the eyes of his leader and comrades, and destroying his carefully cultivated reputation in the fort. Not only that, now Gawain and Kahedin (two of the most troublesome men in all Britannia) knew the secret and were clearly taking far too much delight in this farcical nightmare.

Gawain displaying her horse talents for all to see; Kahedin chasing her up onto rooftops and letting her risk her life, with no regard for the consequences, despite having it all explained to him in detail only moments before.

He would be lucky if this secret lasted the week. And then they would all be publicly flogged.

The girl was now bickering good-naturedly with Gawain and Kahedin, although she wasn't smiling openly. It was more of a smirk… the kind that he sometimes wore…

Good grief. He could see where Gawain drew his comparisons.

The girl then turned those sharp eyes onto him and they narrowed in contemplation.

"Have you finished?" she asked, glancing at his food. He nodded, and she took away the remains before fetching the medicine. Gawain and Kahedin watched silently until Kation turned back to them… and she was wearing a look of pure innocence.

* * *

After Kation tenderly tucked the blankets around Tristan once more with a sweet smile, he knew what made her smile when there wasn't a horse around – when she was victorious. He felt slightly sick at the realisation. He knew she needed to treat the wounds, but making them undress him? This could only be motivated by revenge.

"_But I can't manage it…" Kation said, and her voice took on a distinctly plaintive edge as she tilted her head like a entreating puppy. "He might hit me again if I accidentally hurt him," she turned wide, worried eyes on Gawain, who melted slightly. _

The little bitch had done it on purpose to humiliate them all! Why couldn't they see it?

And Kahedin had even invited her out to the tavern with them afterwards! Utter fools. Couldn't they see she was just as dangerous and manipulative as every other woman?

Honestly, Tristan hoped she met her end that evening. But since she was as quiet as he was, her skinny presence might not immediately register with certain wrong-headed individuals. Tristan understood the need to remain unobtrusive: he knew of Roman men's fondness for younger men and older boys, despite their Christian teachings. Kation wasn't particularly well formed, even for her presumed identity – too skinny and pale – but Tristan couldn't guarantee that it would save her entirely. Those slim wrists and long fingers spoke of a delicacy that was all too alluring to the weak-minded.

A few names crossed his mind, and then went back and entrenched themselves there.

Tristan felt a chill of foreboding.

* * *

ARTHUR: 

When Arthur, who had no interest in gossip, or the time to hear it, considered the youth, he wondered again at Tristan's motives for purchasing the lad. He was as small and slender as a reed with distinctly un-Roman long hair.

Appropriately solemn, the boy didn't even try to catch his attention, and showed no interest him, beyond respectful obedience. Usually such boys would be either terrified of strange men, or outrageously flirtatious.

So when Arthur observed the lad waiting for him the next morning, he took a moment to reappraise the lad closely. The small, perfectly shaped mouth… those large, wide grey eyes framed by long lashes… that beautifully smooth voice and the graceful movements… The half-Roman foresaw innumerable opportunities for trouble. Perhaps he could convince Tristan to cut the boy's hair off – it was a particularly striking feature, and would certainly fire lewd imaginations. Maybe mark his face too. Another measure would be to keep the boy indoors, attending to paperwork and out of sight.

Arthur could at least see to that last part himself.

But the last thing he wanted was for Gawain to create another ruckus in the stables by exhibiting the boy on a warhorse. Once had been more than enough.

The boy looked clean and neat, as he stood (not lounged) by the door to Arthur's rooms. Those extraordinarily clear, watchful grey eyes flashed like a hawk's as they caught Arthur's gaze when he spoke. Intent and sharp.

"Ah, you're already here. Good." He said, fishing out a small ring of keys. "Come in and I'll tell you what needs to be done."

He pushed the door open and strode into his study, which doubled as the official records room, Kation close on his heels. Arthur turned round sharply and saw the boy studying his room, an inscrutable expression on his face. Arthur glanced around the room and winced. The place was a shambles. Papers littered every surface, boxes and cabinets lay open in devastation, as if a storm had ripped through the place only seconds before.

"Please relax: I don't beat slaves unless they really, really deserve it." He said wearily, slumping into a chair. Kation seemed to calm slightly, but otherwise didn't move. "Your duties are as follows: you will rise with the sun, as usual, and prepare all your writing equipment: there is a little box where the previous scribe kept all his things. Then you will attend me and take down any and all notes or letters I dictate. Depending on the nature of the work, you will then write them down in the calendar or sort them in the larger cabinets behind the desk. That desk is mine, but you may use it when I do not need it. You are in charge of keeping all documents organised and under control." He paused. "How is your mathematics?"

"Proficient."

"Excellent, then you'll be in charge of accounts as well. I need everything to be completely up to date. Additionally, I will also need you to courier highly sensitive messages to other forts, you may request an armed escort if you want one. Can you do this?"

"Yes sir."

"Excellent." Kation nodded and turned away, moving to the writing cabinet and inspected the inks, papers and pens. Pulling out a stylus and a small 'booklet' of wax tablets all tied together, perfect for quick notes, Kation continued to explore, happily engrossed in making an inventory of equipment.

But when the slave began muttering crossly to himself in a language that could have been Egyptian for all Arthur knew, he really felt the need for some fresh air. So he made some excuse about inspecting the training quadrant and escaped the battlefield that had once been his unruly, but somehow chaotically organised office.

* * *

It took an entire week to sort Arthur's 'office'. After assembling and sorting all the papers into even piles; I stacked, made lists of lists, and threw a lot of what was clearly rubbish away. Arthur's previous scribe had known what he was doing, but lacked anything near a 21st Century filing system. And Arthur had only compounded the problem by not knowing even the first thing about documentation.

I found a carpenter the next day and commissioned him to build about thirty shallow wooden trays just larger than the papers to hold all loose documents inside the cabinet. Once they were finished, I spent a very bloody day trying to carve labels into their frames. When Kahedin (who had taken to visiting Tristan and I every day) saw my clumsily bandaged fingers, he 'wigged out'.

"_What did you __do__ to yourself?" he exclaimed, pointing to my hands – they had almost stopped bleeding through the bandages. _

"_I was carving," I said with as much dignity as I could muster, reaching to take the cup of wine he offered me. But at the sight of my injuries, he handed it to Tristan (who wasn't really allowed to drink) and started unwrapping my attempts at first aid._

"_Hey!" _

"_Shut up." He said, gripping my wrists tightly. And something about his tone defied further argument, so I was left to watch miserably as he examined the cuts and nicks all over my fingers and hands. I was almost proud of the wedge of flesh I'd taken out of my right hand. It took a masterful degree of clumsiness to do such a thing to oneself. _

"_Rascal…" _

"_Oh Kat…" _

_Two simultaneous, despairing sighs and nicknames I could have happily done without. Not to mention Kahedin's unbearably gentle treatment. I wasn't actually particularly delicate or helpless, and didn't appreciate the way they treated me like a sort of helpless young girl. I __would__ have to kill someone to get the point across. _

"_Seriously, you can't do everything yourself… and girls can't carve." Kahedin smiled at me from under those long dark lashes of his, and I suppose he was trying to beguile me. Fat chance._

"_We can, if we're given the chance to learn." I argued, the sole representative of Gender Equality this place was ever going to encounter. _

_Tristan snorted derisively at the very idea, while Kahedin merely shrugged and went back to bandaging my fingers, dismissing the suggestion with a tad more elegance._

In the end, Tristan offered to carve the labels into the frames – he said he had nothing better to do, and convalescing in silence was almost as awful as being trapped in a room with me for any length of time. I didn't hit him, because I wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment. It was bad enough having to share a room and bed with him. So I wrote down what I wanted carved on each tray on the wax tablets and left him to his task. He seemed happy enough, and if he happened to destroy his hands, then I would have the perfect opportunity to say 'I told you so'. Very loudly. He also picked up on my failing good humour (if it ever existed in the first place) and carefully avoided teasing me _too _much in the evenings. Hell, he even went as far as to shift to one side of the bed at night!

So while the knights went about their daily duties and Tristan healed (slowly), I had the joyful, fulfilling task of actually reading everything in that god-forsaken room and sorting it into its appropriate box or file. Honestly, one slave was not enough for this: '_Killing me slowly with his neglected paperwork…' _

Okay, so it's cheesy to doctor a classic to fit your personal misery, but it gave me pleasure and kept me from attacking Arthur every time he walked past the door. I think he sensed my antipathy, because he avoided spending unnecessary time with me.

* * *

ARTHUR:

He returned from a very productive week of evading the documents room, to find Kation intermittently scribbling something on a stylus and glaring at the unbelievably neat room. His hair was a little wilder than before and he seemed tense.

"Well this is impressive." Arthur said, meaning to gently surprise the scribe. Kation didn't so much as blink as he turned round to face him.

"Everything is in order, sir." He said, putting the tablet on the table as if waiting for something to happen.

"Good. Excellent." Arthur nodded. He had a distinct feeling of awkwardness around Kation, as if the skinny youth was waiting for him to say something. _He _was the Roman commander, not the slave from half way across the world. "Have you eaten?" He asked suddenly, aware that the boy probably hadn't ventured from this room all day.

"No, sir."

"Well go to the tavern and tell them that I sent you."

The boy nodded and left, as silently as ever.

* * *

LANCELOT:

Another evening in the tavern. And despite his best efforts, still no sign of Tristan's little pet after a week. He had even tried to ambush the little creature in the stables, but been thwarted by Bedwyr who had needed him to help rearrange his workshop. Really, was the child's rumoured existence just some sort of elaborate practical joke? He didn't dare confront Tristan with anything less than a detailed retelling of his own personal encounter with the boy. He didn't know what the boy's name was, or even what he looked like.

Not that he wanted to shag the little bastard – gods no; grown women with _plenty _of experience were very much his preferred targets.

Unfortunately, he had been kept busy at Bedwyr's well into the evening and by the time he made it to the tavern the evening was already in full swing. The lovely ladies were all off with their chosen partners, leaving him with the prospect of either gambling some soldiers out of their money… or talking to his fellow knights. Oh, he liked them well-enough as people; he loved them like fostered family, and he had certainly had his fill of their company for the week. Thank the gods it was Arthur's holy day of bugger-all tomorrow and he could relax, alone.

So he wandered over to Brenna and asked for some wine and dinner. She nodded and sent one of the girls off to see to it – she was clearly distracted by something. Lancelot watched the way her long golden braid swung alluringly over her hips as she moved away. Brenna was his greatest challenge – if he managed to bed her, it would be like one of Arthur's oft-cited miracles actually happening.

As he lounged quietly at a table, wondering what to do with himself, he noticed a small figure slip quietly out of the kitchens and place a platter of food on the counter.

Ah, that must be his dinner.

"Hey! Over here!" he called, raising an arm.

The person's head snapped up and Lancelot noticed that it instead of the girl he had been expecting behind the long hair, it was a young lad. Although his face was also a girl's – the skinny frame and trousers proclaimed his gender. Clearly he had to be an officer or local nobleman's boy toy attending his master. But Lancelot was too hungry to care and waved emphatically.

"Bring that here!" he said, pointing to the food. He was starting to feel a frown crease his brow as the boy stared at him, transfixed like a startled doe. But then, after a moment's hesitation, he picked up the platter and carried it over to Lancelot.

"Finally! Are you deaf?"

The boy shrugged and half-turned away when Lancelot reached out and grabbed the boy's arm.

"Stay. I could use the company."

He hadn't meant to sound like… _that_… but the boy showed no sign of alarm or negation at the implied sexual invitation, and he obediently sat down on a stool opposite Lancelot. He eyed the food for a moment, then folded his hands in his lap and blandly regarded the table-top.

As he tucked into the food, (hot meat off the spit, bread and some vegetables) Lancelot openly studied the strange boy; his eyes were half-lidded and passive – his entire expression one of calm submissiveness.

"So who did you come here with?" Lancelot finally asked.

The boy looked up at him and held his gaze steadily. That was unusual.

"I am here alone." He said, so quietly that Lancelot had to lean forward to catch the words. His voice was light, smooth and crystalline. How interesting… no wonder he'd been snapped up into the trade – his androgynous qualities would doubtless be considered enchanting to anyone who liked young men. And most would want to listen to him recite tales or poetry and watch the way his eyes might sparkle in the lamplight.

Lancelot had a keen eye for seeing what other people wanted. Gaheris was even better, but that man had fewer scruples about what he did with such knowledge. For the lad's sake, Lancelot hoped that the boy was spoken for, and that his lover was the short-tempered sort.

"What's your name?"

"Kation."

"Where are you from?"

"Overseas."

The evasive answer pinched at Lancelot's good-humour and he pressed for a more detailed answer. "Where _exactly_?"

"Italy, I think."

"You think?"

"I was taken away from my parents when I was very young – but they must have been from somewhere else, though – since I recall being told that I was 'exotic'."

Selling the slaves' children to save money was a common practice, and clearly the boy was not originally from the central Roman territories, or he wouldn't have ended up this far north.

"And how did you come here, the end of the world?"

And why was he so interested in hearing the child's life-history? Was it to idly pass the time? He knew it wasn't out of concern or for any particular personal gain. He noticed the way the boy watched him; smiling outwardly, but his eyes revealing that he was noticed and assessed every motion and word Lancelot made. Clearly he was an intelligent fellow.

"I was brought here by a dealer as 'exotic stock'." The boy said casually – as if it wasn't such a bad thing, really.

As he was about to ask about the boy's master, a serving girl appeared with a platter of food. She stared at the two sitting at the small table and laughed before giving the boy the meal and stroking his hair affectionately.

"I see you stole the boy's dinner, then."

Lancelot shot the boy a searching look – but he was already tucking into the meal, seemingly oblivious to the offence.

"You've met him before, Verica?" he asked.

The serving girl nodded. "Oh yes, Vanora's taken Kation here under her wing – so behave yourself or you won't be allowed back for days."

"Could I survive?" Lancelot joked with a grin.

"I doubt it. Now eat up," she added, turning her attention back to Kation. "Or else there's no way we can put some meat on your bones." Verica was a warm and generous young woman, who had clearly taken a sort of sisterly shine to the boy. Then she bustled off, shouting over the noise to Brenna and expertly slapping away the groping hands of half-a-dozen men without breaking stride.

Lancelot turned back to the boy and sipped at his wine. Keeping eye contact with Kation, he asked: "So… your master must be pretty trusting to let someone like you out alone at night."

"It is not me he shows concerns for." The boy replied softly.

"Ah, he is afraid for his reputation."

"You could say that." It was not an affirmation, but it didn't rule out the idea altogether.

"And he doesn't care if you're generous with your favours?" Lancelot asked, casually. Usually such men were highly possessive and controlling.

If he hadn't been watching Kation, he wouldn't have seen the look of pure calculation that flitted over the boy's sharp features. And for the first time that night, Lancelot realised that something wasn't quite right. But before he could question it, Kation's expression changed as the boy pushed his food away and rested one elbow on the table, the other falling to his lap again. He leaned forward slightly with a smirk that sent chills along Lancelot's skin. The boy's entire body language had shifted from relaxed neutrality to subtly threatening with one simple, seemingly innocent, set of gestures. Something was very wrong here…

"He has _ways_ of getting what he wants when it suits him – and not just from me. But I am not under his eye all the time." The boy said smoothly, arching an eyebrow in challenge. A secret joke was sparkling in his eyes.

Lancelot's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "So you're willing to face the beatings if it means you can have a little freedom?" He asked. It hadn't been the answer he expected, but he ran with it – hoping to keep the boy talking. He wanted to dig away at that small thrill of suspicion and trepidation the boy had aroused in him.

"Slaves and soldiers know the meaning of pain." The boy answered – it would have been poetic, if it hadn't been said in a foreboding tone. Implicitly threatening.

"I expect you are very _busy_ at night, then?" Lancelot was insinuating, yes, but he wanted a straight and simple answer for once. He'd just have to push back. "Are you meeting someone here tonight?"

The boy's grin turned feral, and his eyes widened slightly. Lancelot had to exert considerable restraint not to show any unease. This was ridiculous! He, Lancelot, was being unnerved by someone's sweetie! But no delicate boy would say such thinly veiled threats, even if they felt threatened. And although the boy's words fitted the role, his body language didn't.

The boy's voice oozed the same predatory grin as his facial features. "Fortunately, no. This place has proved… disappointing. And I just hate being bored."

By now, Lancelot was seriously confused. By his own admission, the boy was someone's arse. The problem was that nothing else about him, apart from his looks, supported that fact. Was Kation just teasing him? What sort of game was he playing? What body slave would suggest they had lovers on the side; aggressively reject Lancelot's supposed proposition and then suggest a later rendezvous? And why did this predatory behaviour make the fine hairs on Lancelot's neck stand straight up?

Simply beating the answers out of him clearly wouldn't work – that smile spoke of a resilience and wildness that wouldn't be broken in a single evening. And besides, Lancelot would have to contend with the boy's enraged owner, later. And then there was the distinct possibility that the youth wasn't simply used for pleasure; maybe he was something else… maybe he was simply _pretending_ to be what he seemed.

Not what he _seemed_…

"You're bored? Clearly you aren't kept busy enough." Lancelot said, buying time while his mind raced down this new avenue.

"Oh, I assure you that my days are pretty full. Arthur does not know the meaning of administrative organisation."

That snapped Lancelot out of his musings faster than an arrow from a bow.

"Arthur?" he repeated sharply.

Kation nodded and stood, preparing to leave. "I am his new scribe."

Lancelot spluttered, his mind having to wheel around to this new piece of incredible information – reorienting itself to encompass a totally different situation to what he supposed… "What? But that means _you're_…?"

The boy tilted his head as he stared down at Lancelot. There was no longer any of that predatory teasing or thinly veiled menace. He was just a boy. Unremarkable, save for his looks.

"Yes. And no." He said, eventually answering despite the lack of an understandable question.

"What sort of people were you bred out of?" Lancelot said wonderingly – he had never met such a complex or enigmatic person in his life. The obvious intelligence made all the more fierce by that sensation of tightly-controlled feral menace.

"Oh, but there's where you are wrong," Kation wagged a finger at him, that awful grin still stretched across his face again. Clearly he was enjoying Lancelot's increasingly apparent unease. "I am a demon's child." He looked utterly relaxed as he said it – but the light in those ice-pale eyes was deadly serious, as if he was warning Lancelot off a dangerous topic.

Never one to back down, Lancelot opened his mouth to demand an honest answer – but the boy thwarted his attempt. With a conspiratorial (and not at all saucy) wink, Kation inclined his head respectfully.

"Thank you for allowing me to dine with you, sir knight. Please excuse me." He said, and then turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen. Lancelot didn't bother to follow. He knew the boy would have disappeared as masterfully as he had controlled the conversation.

* * *

What an interesting and satisfying evening! I had been so unbelievably bored and aggravated by the prosaic monotony of day-to-day secretary work that the idea of messing with someone's head appealed.

Hey, I never said I was a particularly nice person. Besides, that guy's ego was in no danger from my corner and no lasting damage had been done. I think I just annoyed him by being really evasive.

And they were so similar looking that I would have thought them to be brothers: tall, with identical curling black hair tumbling over high foreheads and expressive mouths. But Arthur's eyes were the colour of a winter sea, while that knight's eyes were nearly black. I had enjoyed watching him become increasingly suspicious during our conversation, too. It was refreshing to be taken seriously for once… even if I had to lie through my teeth.

I would have to ask Tristan which knight I had spent the evening provoking. But I seriously doubted I would be in any real danger: it seemed everyone was frightened of Tristan's wrath.

My roommate noticed my good mood as I almost skipped through the doorway a moment later.

"What happened?" he asked, instantly suspicious.

And rightly so.

"I just had a really interesting conversation with one of your fellow knights." I said, tugging off my boots and wriggling out of my semi-poncho and black tunic. I was so ready for sleep.

"Which one?"

"Don't know. He had black curls like Arthur and dark eyes. He wore a black tunic too."

_"Lancelot?"_

"Oh. That's Lancelot? I thought he'd be taller." Arthur's second in command and closest friend was spoken of with great reverence by the soldiers and stable boys. He wasn't nearly as imposing in the flesh.

Tristan groaned and set down the filing tray he'd been carving. I noticed that he had yet to injure himself in that task. Damn him. "What did he say?"

"Oh he wanted to find out who my master was."

"And what did _you_ say?"

"Well, I had to admit I was Arthur's scribe in the end. So he's worked out who I am. But he doesn't suspect I'm a girl." I sank down onto the bed next to him and plucked the knife from his hand, setting it down on top of the unfinished trays. Then I brushed the wood chips off the blankets and passed him an apple – he would have certainly forgotten to eat something.

"Are you sure?" Oh ye of so little faith...

"Yes. He believes me to be a rebellious little sex slave who passes favours out behind my master's back and will risk a beating to do so."

Tristan chuckled and shook his head. "I will probably have to black your eye to allay such a story."

"And no doubt you'll enjoy the attempt." I smiled back. We were both only half-joking, but weirdly that's what kept the conversation light.

"Well, tomorrow's the Sabbath. Does that mean I get a day off too?" I asked, crawling under the covers with a yawn.

Tristan gave a grunt and shook his head. "I don't doubt that Gawain or Kahedin will steal you away for their own entertainment if Arthur has no tasks for you."

I didn't doubt it either. But I could hope.

* * *

**And… that's it for a little while. Still, please don't hesitate to review – I love to hear your thoughts and reactions. I am also interested to know where you can see this going – I have a vague idea myself (for once). **

**And anyone who can spot 'The Swan Princess' (film) and 'The Peacemaker' (anime) references gets a cookie and a cameo in the next chapter. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Okay, okay… I said I wouldn't be back until next weekend. But it turns out that I get weekends off! *Happy dance* **

**So, without further ado, I give you a dramatic and tantalising chapter. **

**Disclaimer****: I don't own anything you might recognise from the film or the wider Arthurian legend. **

**Warnings: ****Slight time jump forwards. And… does a bit of gory violence count?**

* * *

And to be frank, it was a forlorn hope. But instead of taking me back to the tavern or parading me about to the other knights, I was taken riding by Gawain. He seemed to have appointed himself my 'other older brother' and while Tristan was the grumpy and bossy type, Gawain was kinder and fairly easy-going. He still loved to tease me, but seemed keen to spend time with me, even making several valiant attempts to lift my mood.

I learned what the knights' duties were through my work in administration. Being Arthur's scribe was more akin to being a PA, secretary and accountant all at once, while buried under countless bits of paper. But despite the fact I was unbelievably busy from dawn till dusk (literally), the next month passed in much the same way without serious incident. I got used to less sleep and more work – finding that being a morning person was a state of mind.

For the amusement of the readers, and with one glaring exception, this is how a usual uninteresting day panned out for me:

I woke up a few minutes before dawn and sighed.

_Thank… something… genetics? Fate…? for this flat chest,_ I thought fervently as I rolled out of bed, stood and stretched. Until now, I had cursed my 'teenage boy' figure – but now, it kept me alive. Behind me, still in bed, Tristan groaned and rolled over, he would be going back to sleep as soon as I left.

"I'll… be back with breakfast a little later," I mumbled around a yawn, reaching over to ruffle his hair and maliciously wake him up.

"Hrm… right…" he didn't seem too concerned by my going out and about anymore. Perhaps this was in the forlorn hope that I'd meet my destruction when he wasn't around to prevent it.

He was almost fully recovered now, and I was certain that he wouldn't be my problem for much longer. I was now taking long lunch breaks to help Tristan exercise his muscles and improve his stamina. He had never heard of press-ups before, but since his wounds were now no more than lividly pink and tender scars, I helped him get acquainted with them.

In the early days, I had only a single set of clothes, and since they needed washing, I found myself being forced to wear something of Tristan's. I hadn't realised just how small I truly am until I pulled on one of his tunics in the second week. It fell to my knees and the cuffs trailed so far over my hands I seriously considered just cutting the sleeves back by a foot.

The first time this happened, Tristan had taken one look at me flapping my arms like a demented bird and actually chuckled. I grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of my head, embarrassed, only for the excess material to flop over the side of my face. Tristan's chuckles turned into strangled convulsions and I was forced to swear at him. My appearance in Tristan's clothes had also incited much amusement in onlookers. Particularly two certain knights who shall remain nameless, as I know the reader can guess their identities.

Those were the days when I stayed hidden in the records room.

Once he had calmed down, I suggested that if he had thought things through I wouldn't be in such an embarrassing predicament. And one that reflected poorly on Tristan's reputation as well. That had sobered him up nicely. It had also guaranteed me a trip into the village on market day for more clothes.

But I digress… As I splashed a little water on my face from the wash basin, I thought it wasn't very fair that Tristan got to sleep in for hours 'convalescing' while I was working before half the fort was even awake. Excluding the night watch, I hardly saw anyone as I pulled myself out and up onto the gently sloping roof from the window ledge to survey the fort and surrounding area. At this time of year it was still too warm for frost, but thick dew and light mist clung to the ground, giving it an almost eerie appearance. Having seen my climbing abilities, and feeling unduly paranoid about fort security in his absence, Tristan had asked me to use this 'unique perspective' to keep an eye on things. Especially in the morning.

I understood entirely. Not only about his paranoia, but also about dawn being a risky time. It was just when the night watch was relaxing and preparing to get some breakfast before a recuperative nap, and the morning's watch would not be fully alert either. It would be the perfect moment to try something.

So I made sure the 'hoards of enemies' didn't storm the gates when no one was prepared. I smiled at the idea of Gawain having another heart-attack at the sight of me leaping between rooftops like some sort of miniature (albeit unarmed and very uncool) version of Ezio Auditore before clambering down onto the records room's window ledge. I tested the shutters and found them latched from the inside. Great. So I dropped to the ground (all of three feet) and walked around the building the traditional way. Not waiting to be let in, I fished the spare key from its hiding place and entered quietly. Talk about dodgy security. I lit an oil lamp on the desk and crossed to the cabinet, pulling out a ledger of accounts from two years ago with a sigh. Time to work…

* * *

ARTHUR: 

He walked into the records' room, stretching and yawning, only to find Kation already at the desk studiously scribbling away, his fingers blackened from ink and the dark head bent close to the paper. But upon noticing Arthur's arrival, he hastily stood and bowed.

"Good morning, Kation." Arthur said, leaving the scribe to his work. Breakfast was at hand, after all.

And Kation certainly worked. He was almost halfway through last year's account book when Arthur came back and asked him to transcribe several dictated letters. The Roman commander was astonished by how fast the boy could write, almost as quickly as he spoke; but when questioned about this skill, the scribe merely offered 'lots of practice' as a reason.

* * *

Arthur usually inspected my work, reviewed some things (or at least he pretended to… one of the reports was being held _upside down_) and then thought of new tasks for me.

I took a few minutes off to fetch some breakfast from the kitchens for Tristan, who ate silently while also devising errands for me. New arrowheads, fixing his winter boots, exercising Tagiytei or Sarakos…

Ah. Sarakos. I haven't mentioned that Arthur claimed Sarakos for himself. This meant that the horse was to remain exactly where he was, and continue being a little tinker. Unfortunately this meant that there was another giant nuisance for the stablehands. Amandus and Mato were a pair of immensely funny and cheerful guys, who took all crises and problems relating to the horses and knights in their stride. They were as well-informed as Vanora, but lacked the instinctive need to boss everyone around. On occasion, this made them far better company than that red-haired woman.

The interminable chores and daily tasks continued until lunch time, then I returned to Tristan and hauled him outside for some exercise. He was much stronger, and his endurance had increased significantly, so we could walk into the village next to the fort.

To make matters a little better, a market was being held in the village. And I was in dire need of some winter accessories. Naturally, this made me very excited and I had to resist the urge to skip around Tristan as he limped along. The muscles in his leg were still weak, so whenever he left the room, I insisted he walk with a stick. I had taken great pains to find him one that was not only the correct length, but also did not hurt his hand.

See? I could be nice.

"Calm down." He growled.

"But it's great! I'm going to buy a scarf and gloves!" I exclaimed happily.

Tristan sighed. "As I have said before, I am not made of money!"

"Perhaps you could sell favours then," I said with a saucy wink. "I have seen the way the village women stare at you. Clearly you are a highly sought after prize." To be honest, I hadn't seen him so much as glance at a woman with even passing interest, so the suggestion was going to be—

"Insolent child." He growled, and slashed at me with the stick. I dodged away, grinning. Yup, shot down in flames.

"Honestly, when you glare like that it frightens the girls away." I huffed, and fell into step beside him. "And Arthur will be holding a Round Table meeting tonight. You'll have to go since you're nearly completely better."

"What is it about?"

I shrugged, clasping my hands behind my back to keep from fidgeting as I stared at the bright, cloudless sky. Such a day was rare at this time of year. "I think it is to discuss possible Woad activities this coming winter. And something to do with Eboracum… maybe. I don't know about the latter for certain."

Eboracum was a very large trading city on the east coast. Not only was it the most influential settlement in the north of the island, it was also cosmopolitan and dangerous. I had never been, but the Prefect of the northern half of Britannia resided there and seemed to resent Arthur's unanimous popularity all along the Wall. The half-Roman commander was clearly a threat, especially because of his influence and reputation with the legions garrisoned there. In fact, I had seen Arthur's name cropping up in documents discussing national matters with increasing frequency. That was worrying. As the military commander of a highly sensitive provincial border, Arthur had little interest or time for such things. And becoming embroiled in politics more than absolutely necessary would take his eye off the increasingly problematic Saxon and Woad infiltrations onto the Roman side of the Wall.

"Does the Prefect want to try crippling Arthur's influence again?" Tristan said with a sneer. His devious mind travelled down similarly dark and paranoid paths to mine. It was a huge comfort at such times.

I shook my head. "I know the man isn't happy about it… but apart from thinly veiled insults concerning Arthur's heritage, it is little more than brittle official correspondence."

"Well he can't openly move against Arthur, or he would destabilise his own position."

"I do not think Eboracum's high society will be a problem at this time." I agreed.

"All the same, if you find anything alarming or important, report it to Kahedin or me immediately. Understood?"

I rolled my eyes but acquiesced.

We entered the village in silence. Tristan nodded to a few people he recognised, but otherwise remained mute and scowling. I had the distinct impression he didn't enjoy shopping.

The market was wonderful; chaotic, disorientating and utterly alive with activity. We passed stalls for everything: food, meat, grain, fruit, vegetables, honey, livestock, jewellery, pots, pan, cosmetics, soap, tallow, oil, wine… the smells of a thousand things filled my head, and every sort of voice imaginable called out. We waded through the crowds and I pressed closer to Tristan's back, fearful of losing him in this maelstrom.

A long-fingered, callused hand grabbed mine and I looked up at him with some surprise. Tristan never touched me unnecessarily; even when we shared the bed at night, only his back touched mine as we slept turned away from each other.

"I don't want you getting snatched away." He said curtly, and proceeded to drag me to a particular stall. It sold delicate little things laid out over a table: small mirrors, combs, fine cups, cloak pins and a hundred other necessary little items.

Why were we here? I shot Tristan a quizzical look, but he merely picked up a bone comb and examined it. Did he need a new one? The comb he kept in a box in his room seemed fine to me. I didn't try to guess his motives, so I merely waited and watched.

"Which do you like?" he said, not turning his head.

"Master?" I queried. Had he been addressing me?

Tristan threw me an impatient look. "The combs. You need one, and I'm not going to let you destroy mine with all that hair of yours." He snapped.

The vendor, who had been watching us like a hawk, stepped forward to deliver us his sales pitch.

"Ah sir, your _companion_—" and you could just hear the inflection in that most diplomatic of words, "has very luxurious hair does he not? A fine comb for a fine boy, I say. Perhaps this one…" he turned, and opened a box behind him, fishing out another comb. It was made of bronze and was much finer than the ones on the table. It had longer teeth and was stamped with a simple swirling pattern that reminded me a little of Celtic knot work.

Tristan glanced at me to gauge my reaction.

I was unmoved by it. I would rather he spent the money on a decent pair of leather gloves. So I bowed my head and clasped my hands in front of me: the picture of demure embarrassment.

"Master, I am not worthy of such a princely thing. The one in your hand exceeds what I deserve," I murmured, peeping up at him through my lashes in shy reproach.

The vendor looked stunned. But Tristan's lips thinned slightly, the only evidence that my little performance had annoyed him. So he bought the bone comb in his hand and we moved on.

"You would rather have an extra pair of socks, I take it?" he growled quietly.

"Of course," I whispered back, my voice nearly lost in the clamour of the market. "If I must act sweetly for the villagers, then you will pay for my performance."

* * *

GAWAIN: 

The meeting was going to be so tedious! They always were, but this one in particular would drive them all to the edge of sanity. It was just a typical winter forecast and honestly, they all knew what the Woads were going to do: harass them at every opportunity and raid their supply trains.

That afternoon, he was lounging in the tavern with the twins, Galahad and Tristan. Kation was nowhere to be seen, but Gawain had little doubt that the girl was close by.

"Bloody meetings," Galahad sighed, resting his chin on his hand. "Has some new information come in?"

"You never know, lad." Dinadan rumbled. He refilled the empty cups around the table with wine, and sighed. "Perhaps they plan a full-scale assault on one of the weaker forts."

"About as likely as them growing wings," Gawain said wryly.

"Until we know if there is anything new, we cannot afford to speculate." Cador said sharply. The scar on his forehead was testament to faulty information. It had been years ago but instead of a simple band of truants, Cador and Kay had run into a band of highly organised Woads in disguise. It had been a sharp learning curve, and Arthur had invested in networks of information.

Tristan remained silent, and sipped his wine. The man was getting better rapidly, but he still wasn't fighting fit. Sooner than any medicus or healer would have liked, the man was already practising in the Training Quadrant.

"And where is your delightful boy, Tristan?" Cador asked, turning the conversation away from the inevitable meeting and onto more dangerous topics. Predictably, Tristan's face darkened and he set his cup down.

"Do you wish to see him?"

His tone was so light and casual, that anyone who knew the scout could see it was as deadly as a snake, coiled to strike.

Cador, knowing he was in no danger, smiled widely. "Of course, we barely know him – he is a curious little creature isn't he?"

With an irritated flash of his dark eyes, Tristan shrugged. "He is on an errand. You'll have your chance to tease him some other time."

The banter ran back and forth until all too soon, it was time for the meeting.

They waved at the other knights around the tavern, and as a full company, they walked over to the hall of the Round Table. It had been another of Arthur's cute ideas, pulled straight out of the pages of his mentor Pelagius' teachings.

Romans were _so_ bizarre.

Arthur entered a few minutes after they had all settled themselves in their seats, a stack of papers in his hands. Kation followed behind, carrying another pile of documents in a wooden tray.

"Knights," Arthur muttered distractedly, staring at the papers in slight puzzlement.

Kation rolled her eyes, (much to the silent amusement of the knights) and silently took over sorting the papers.

Arthur decided to keep talking, as if this was what he'd planned all along. "As you know, we're here to discuss the winter activities of the Woads, and our preparations to counteract them." The knights groaned as one man and Arthur's brows furrowed in confused annoyance. "It is imperative," he soldiered on, "for they may be primitive, but that doesn't mean we can afford to underestimate their cunning."

It was the same damn speech he gave every year. Why didn't anyone tell him to just get on with it? Gawain resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands.

Kation had finished sorting the papers into their relevant piles, and retreated to stand behind Tristan's chair. Perfect behaviour.

"That will be all, Kation." Arthur said, dismissing the girl despite it being Tristan's right to command his slave. The insult, however slight, didn't win Arthur any favours, as several knights threw apprehensive glances at Tristan's stony countenance.

Kation also remained where she was, waiting for her 'master's' order.

Tristan nodded and flicked his fingers at her. She left silently, head held high.

Well, wasn't that the silent statement.

Gawain allowed himself a faint smile at their little display, especially in the face of Arthur's realisation of his discourtesy. The half-Roman coloured slightly, but otherwise remained on track. He picked up a piece of parchment and looked it over before clearing his throat. "Firstly, I need to inform you about the state of the supply trains coming from the western port, as this influences…"

This was going to be a _very _long meeting indeed.

* * *

I didn't see _why _I had been dismissed. If it was about secrecy, Arthur shouldn't have turned me loose upon his papers. But I had a part to play, so I left silently. I hadn't missed the mild offence done to Tristan, which is why I'd stayed until he dismissed me. No one would insult him in such a manner and get away with it on my watch.

I closed the door firmly behind me, and leaned against the opposite wall. It had been a busy day preparing all the documents for this meeting. I still didn't know why Arthur wanted to discuss the crop yields of the northern barons with the knights. They were men of action, who probably didn't want to be bored with such minutiae, no matter how they affected the state of play at the Wall.

On second thoughts, Kahedin would have been fascinated to know where things began. His mind was wasted on scouting. And Tristan might… if it directly affected his life.

I shut my eyes and sighed. Life was here was regular and boring. Nice and quiet. All the right phrases for this sort of 'adventure'.

And as I stood in that empty corridor, lit only by a single lamp at one end, that's when it all went to hell.

I was dozing lightly on my feet (something I had become very good at since being here) while waiting to be called back in, when I heard the noise. It was soft and slithering tap-tapping. Almost imperceptible. Initially, I paid it no heed. It was probably just a soldier or aide walking along one of the corridors. I heaved an involuntary sigh, and shifted my weight, almost stumbling as feeling returned to stiff joints. I'd have been better off sitting down, but I didn't want to be caught asleep, even if I had been up since dawn.

The slither came again.

Odd.

It wasn't a confident sound. It was like someone was trying to tip-toe on hob-nailed boots. I cracked open an eye and peered through my long hair at the corridor, not moving my head. I couldn't see anything in the gloom, and decided that this entire place really needed more torches.

The slithering came closer and grew more regular – was the unknown person becoming more confident? They were certainly trying to remain subtle.

"Boy?" a voice hissed, very close to me. I made a small noise in my throat, and made a show of waking up.

In retrospect, that was where I made my fatal mistake.

The knife slashed through my throat before I even had a chance to get a proper look at the man. The pain, the _shock_, was instantaneous and overwhelming. My eyes popped, and my mouth opened in a silent scream because I was choking on my own blood, my body fighting to breathe even as I gurgled and choked like a leaky pipe. This guy clearly knew what he was doing.

My legs gave way and I collapsed to the floor, clutching at my spurting neck and trying to make some sort of noise. I had to warn Tristan and the others.

My vision darkened and I fell onto my side. My lungs were burning and I was shuddering uncontrollably. I hated to go this way. And this tunic was going to need a serious wash.

I tried to move, but I couldn't feel anything… not even the agony in my neck…

This was it. The end.

Temporarily, anyway.

How long would it take for me to come back? Would I wake up in a shallow grave? I certainly hoped it wouldn't be a funeral pyre… that would be really, really painful.

And then… nothing.

My experiences of death are all the same: darkness and stillness. I was dimly aware of a scratching sensation around my neck, like thousands of nails on my skin and _inside… _it was unpleasant and I knew that those freaky 'thou-shalt-not-die-until-I-say-so' powers were at work. So I waited and waited… praying I would wake up in time to stop the assassin.

Maybe Arthur's long-winded style would save him… this one time at least.

* * *

GALAHAD:

Arthur droned on and _on. _These were the meetings which elder knights like Bedwyr had told him were fun. Under Arthur's father, Uther, there had been some wine, some fruit… apparently it had been a relaxed and enjoyable affair.

Now, the trapped knights were on the verge of sleep. Bors had actually propped his chin up on his hands in an effort to stay awake. Lancelot was blinking furiously, and Gaheris had a faraway look on his face.

Only Kahedin and Tristan seemed remotely interested in the tensions resulting from traders' taxes in Eboracum. The scouts were a pair of creepy bastards – Tristan with his open enjoyment of killing and Kahedin with his distant, predatory demeanour. But when they felt like being sociable, they could be more charismatic than Lancelot. It was bizarre and deeply unsettling.

The lecture turned to Woads, and finally the knights perked up slightly. Now important things were being discussed. Maybe Arthur would let Galahad go out on patrol this year.

In years past, Arthur had forbidden him from patrol duties, reasoning he was too small and that bandits and Woads would target a more vulnerable looking horseman. He resented this 'babying' deeply. But over the past spring and summer he had finally grown. Only in his arms and legs at the moment, but he was becoming more powerful every week. Tristan and Kahedin were now helping him to refine his horseback archery, and Gawain had decided he was strong enough to start learning about lance-work.

This had been a good season. Even Arthur had noticed (and been impressed) at his improvement.

It was his time to step out of the Training Quadrant. He _would _go on regular patrols!

"And now for patrol pairs for the winter," Arthur pulled out yet another scroll and cleared his throat. "Lancelot and Kahedin; Dagonet and Dinadan; Bors and Cador…"

"Hang on! Why am I with him?" Dinadan said loudly, shooting a concerned look at his smiling brother.

"You two bicker too much." Dagonet's good-natured rumble silenced all protestations.

And that left…

"Tristan and Galahad."

His heart sank. Why was he with that awful man? Didn't Arthur know that they had a similar relationship to Kahedin and Gaheris? He opened his mouth to protest, but noticed Dagonet's hard look and meekly subsided. Another time.

Arthur had just started in on duty rotas, when they heard an alarmed cry just outside the door.

Not waiting for an order, or even looking at each other, every man leapt into action.

* * *

**Haha! What will happen? Any guesses? I will probably have another chapter done by next weekend. **

**Thank you for all the reviews! I love them and they keep me going. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Huge apologies for the lateness of this chapter. ****This picks up exactly where the last chapter broke off. If you don't believe me… read on!**

**Warnings****: The 'F-Bomb' makes its debut! And so does the English translation of 'scheisse'. Don't like bad language… well, don't read the chapter. Although you'll be missing out. Also, some pervert peeping and nakedness. Nothing immensely explicit. Just descriptive.**

* * *

When I did revive, it was with a horrible, retching cough and a racing heart. I tried to breathe and coughed again. Getting control over small sips of air, I dimly saw the knife had been thrown on top of me as the man turned away to listen at the door. It was probably meant as some sort of pointed message to Arthur. How cliché.

At the unexpected noises, the man jerked round and caught sight of me, trying to sit up. To be fair, in most people's experience dead people don't make miraculous recoveries, so the shock he suffered produced a cry of alarm and a paralysing effect on his legs. I writhed and clutched at the knife, determined to avenge my murder and hoping to take advantage of his momentary horror to exact some retribution.

But it didn't go exactly as I would have liked.

You know that tale about hitting someone in the nose so hard that you drive the bone shards into the person's brain? Well, ask any real martial arts instructor and the wise sensei will tell you it's a load of bollocks. But when a huge door, studded with great big iron nails, came swinging into the back of my head, the rules of iron vs. bone came into play and the results were obvious.

Door: 1. My skull: 0.

Blunt-force trauma can be lethal, and in this case it certainly was almost instantaneous.

Seriously?! I had only just come back from my first death, I still couldn't breathe properly, and now I'd been slain again in a matter of seconds! The fact that it had been my master who'd dealt the fatal door strike only made it all the more galling when I revived.

It didn't help that his face was way too close to mine when I woke up on the floor; luckily there wasn't much to repair (since I probably have very little brain matter and a paper-thin skull). Moreover, unless the injury was a fatal one I'd have to suffer the laceration to my scalp – so even if the recovery time would be accelerated, it wouldn't just disappear.

But an awfully large pool of blood (mostly from my throat) had soaked my tunic and now my hair was sticky with it. The back of my head stung hotly and I just knew I was covered in the red stuff. _Wonderful. _

"He's awake!" said a voice excitedly. I couldn't see who it was, Tristan's glaring face filled my vision and my ears were ringing slightly.

"Thank God, it's a miracle!"

Oh Arthur, you have no idea how ironic that is…

"N-nice shot… master," I coughed weakly, grinning up at him. He drew back a little. "But p-please… endeavour to hit the… door with more force… next time. That way… you'll be p-properly rid of m-me."

Tristan scowled down at me and then wrapped his arm around my shoulders, helping me sit up. Still dizzy from substantial blood loss and what felt like a screaming concussion, my vision blurred and darkened. As I rested my head against Tristan's collarbone, I think I sobbed a little. It was probably at the thought of having to wash my hair before it congealed into a rock-hard sticky mass.

"What happened?" Tristan growled, I knew he was furious, but if it was at me or the now unconscious man who had also been squished by the door, I couldn't tell.

"The m-man…" I whispered, every other syllable being forced out through a throat that felt like it was about five sizes too small. I closed my eyes and prayed for unconsciousness to return.

"What happened?" Tristan repeated. I felt another set of hands running over me, checking me for wounds. The touch was impersonal and I supposed it was Dagonet.

"Where did all this blood come from?" the giant rumbled, running a finger along my newly healed throat. I coughed, and shook my head slightly. Another trickle of crimson heat slipped down my collar at the movement.

"I-I don't remember…" I gasped. A blatant lie, but I could blame it on the head trauma. "But the man… he… he attacked me…" I shuddered and huddled against Tristan, feeling terrible and a little scared. If my secret was discovered, I was doomed. Tristan's grip tightened fractionally; I must have looked like hell and awakened some protective spark in him.

Yeah… and farmers bred flying pigs.

Arthur took over the interrogation and I started to fervently wish I was still dead. "What did the man do? Who screamed?"

"He s-screamed… he was l-listening at the door…"

All the important words got out before I dissolved into another fit of wheezing gasps.

"Why did he scream? Where did he attack you?"

Damn. All the hard questions…

The stress was making me start to shake again. Why wasn't Tristan getting me out of here?!

"I w-woke up… I m-must have s-surprised him…"

How on earth could I explain the evidence? How could I downplay all this coughing? I knew Dagonet wouldn't find any injuries on me apart from the cut on my scalp… hopefully that would be enough.

Damn and double damn. Time to be ultra-pathetic. I faked a swoon and let my head drop onto Tristan's shoulder once more. Whatever information they got out of the spy later would hopefully make little sense to them. After all, who would believe that a slave boy could come back from the dead, _repeatedly_?

* * *

TRISTAN: 

They had all rushed the door, a cry of alarm like that was worth investigating, especially when it was right outside a private meeting.

He was the first one through the door, with the full weight of Bors and Gaheris behind him. There was a nasty sound of crunching, and the door didn't open any further. Tristan dug his heels in and barked out "Stop!" in case they utterly crushed whoever was on the other side.

In that split second of stillness, he noticed the blood all over the floor. Carefully stepping into the corridor, he noticed two crumpled forms behind the door and relayed the information – also cautioning them to not shove.

One of the bodies was horribly familiar.

Without thinking it through, he dragged the girl out and leaned over her, feeling for a pulse. When he couldn't find one, his heart locked in horror. He should have never kept her.

A painful cough and a shudder told him his worst fears had been unfounded. A pulse beat erratically under his fingertips and she was blearily peering around, wheezing and gasping as if she'd just had all the air knocked from her lungs.

Perhaps his fears had some truth to them after all. What on earth had happened to cover her in all that blood?! He shot a look at the unconscious stranger, who's nose was now a gory smear across his face, and wondered… but the girl was more important. She held his life in her hands.

And then she _grinned_ at him and made some pithy joke about trying to kill her between retching coughs. Tristan was starting to revise his opinion of strange foreign girls with bizarre names and skills. Clearly this one was beyond all hope.

Dagonet checked her over, but failed to find any injury apart from the large cut on the back of her head that was steadily soaking Tristan's tunic. As the scout cradled her gingerly in his arms he wondered if she had broken anything. Would he be able to carry her, or did they have to wait for a pallet? Cador had already disappeared to fetch the orderlies, and now Gaheris and Bors were keeping the area clear of onlookers. At least they all knew what to do in such an emergency. So when Arthur broke off from co-ordinating the situation, and started to interrogate her, Tristan was surprised that she was even more reluctant to talk. Worse still, none of her answers made much sense. How serious was her head wound? It was a small blessing she then faked unconsciousness to earn herself a vital reprieve. He knew she was faking it because she was still trembling slightly.

Arthur looked seriously at Tristan. "Get some straight answers out of your slave – the man will certainly lie."

He could hear the anxiety in his commander's voice and he nodded. "Head injuries can cause temporarily confusion. All will be well."

Dagonet was now vehemently insisting she went to the infirmary. The unconscious prisoner had already been borne away, and Tristan let out a relieved huff. About time! He shifted his grip around her shoulders and slid his other arm under her legs, lifting her to his chest before quickly getting to his feet. He hadn't truly noticed before, so perhaps it was her fierce personality that made her seem bigger, but for a supposedly grown woman she was unusually small. Despite his weakened muscles, it took no real effort to bear her all the way to the infirmary.

As he walked through the fort, there was unease from onlookers at the sight of his blood-drenched slave. Tristan didn't doubt his own expression was equally alarming, because not even the officers tried to stop him. Everyone got out of his way. Failing to suppress the angry rumble in his chest, he bit out: "What happened?" in a harsh whisper.

He would keep asking that exact until she gave him a satisfactory answer.

She mumbled something, and coughed again, her trembling red hands gripping at his collar.

"L-later… 'ts a secret…"

He really didn't have time for this. Arthur may be his friend, but he was Tristan's commander first and expected results. "What do you mean, 'secret'?"

"Curse…"

Oh gods on the wind and water… if she was cursed, this would spell trouble for everyone.

Once in the infirmary, an orderly pointed to a free bed and said a medicus would be along shortly. The ward was pretty empty, only a few soldiers occupied the beds. Tristan sat down on the cot, keeping her on his lap. He wasn't going to leave her and let some medicus uncover their secret. Dagonet hurried over.

"I thought it best if he sees someone he knows…" the giant explained. "Poor boy's wits must be scrambled."

Tristan gently squeezed Kation's arm in warning and then grunted in agreement. "He's now blabbering about a curse and some such nonsense."

Dagonet shook his head sadly and turned the girl's head around, burying her forehead in Tristan's collar, to inspect the large cut. He hissed through his teeth and caught Tristan's eye.

"He'll be fine." He said with a small smile. "Just a few stitches."

Kation began to shake in earnest and lifted her head to stare, terror-struck, at Tristan. He had forgotten how frightened she was of such things.

"Give him some poppy first." Tristan said. "Otherwise he'll try to run away."

Dagonet looked doubtful, but nodded. Once Kation had taken an alarming amount of the sedative, she quieted considerably, her eyes dark and lazy as Dagonet cleaned the wound.

"We'll have to cut his hair."

Oh, she was not going to like that. But it was for her own good, so Tristan sighed and nodded. Thank the gods she was as limp as a rag from all the medicine. He still heard a moan of protest, but ignored it. Let her have her tantrum when she was fully awake and he was certain she wasn't either crazy or at the gates of death.

Dagonet grabbed the scissors and cut the hair around the wound off almost against the scalp, revealing it to be a wide, jagged tear as long as Tristan's middle finger. It still bled sluggishly, and Tristan suppressed a wince. That had to hurt. But the Sarmatian healer just kept cutting, remorselessly creating a considerable pile of shorn hair on the bed between them. Finally, her black locks were as short as any Roman youth's, exposing a long slender neck and small ears. She looked even more frail and vulnerable, but Tristan wasn't fooled. She was going to be hysterical when the poppy wore off.

* * *

KAHEDIN: 

Upon seeing Tristan fully occupied with the girl, who looked to be severely injured, he turned his attention to the unconscious man. After a quick search of the area, Kahedin found a knife on the floor. The blade was covered in drying blood, and he frowned as he noticed the specific shape of the weapon.

It was a native-forged blade, and a typical shape of a warrior's dagger. On the grip was a running stag.

He beckoned Galahad over, knowing the boy's keen mind and original (if often half-baked) ideas might offer an alternative theory as to the knife's meaning, since he really disliked what his own suspicions entailed.

The teenager looked at the blade and frowned. "It certainly belongs to someone of high-status," he ventured. "From the grip and quality of the steel it looks like it might belong to someone from a noble's retinue."

"But why take such an incriminating thing into the wolves' den?" Kahedin said, pretending to ponder. The boy could be so useful if only he was prodded in the right direction. Galahad, looking like he would rather be anywhere but right there, sighed.

"Either the man was overconfident, or he sought to put blame with the real owner of the blade if he was discovered." He replied, in a tone that suggested all this was obvious, which it was.

"Think harder." Kahedin said sharply.

Galahad sighed and glared at Kahedin, who simply stared back in a flat-out challenge.

"Well… if I was to _guess,_" he said pointedly. "I'd say that this wasn't the first time someone has been listening to our meetings. It's just that they couldn't have known Kation would be waiting in the corridor. Who knows how long our plans and strategies have been monitored?" he shrugged, as if he didn't care, but Kahedin knew that the lad could feign insouciance very well when he felt like it. "And who would be interested in such information?"

Kahedin allowed himself an approving smile and let Galahad return to helping Gawain. The boy really was clever. Now if only he wasn't always so literal, he'd be _really_ helpful. There was definitely some wider scheme at play… and Kahedin would find out what it was.

* * *

The poppy seeds (read: opiates) had a wonderful effect on my needle phobia; it reduced the pain and turned me into a rag-doll on Tristan's lap. If I hadn't been feeling so awful, I would have been seriously embarrassed about being carried bridal style around the fort and treated like a delicate princess. But the drug did not, however, dull my internal outrage at the horrifying haircut I had undergone.

I must have fallen asleep during the stitching, because when I awakened, I was lying on my side, with a bandaged head, a screaming headache and a dawning sense of horror.

I knew what had happened, I had been conscious of Dagonet cutting _all my hair off_.

It was my one vanity. I am small and utterly unfeminine in every way… ok, my face isn't hideous, but it's nothing to write home about. My hair was special to me, and because of my own impulsive desire for revenge it had been taken away. Stupid, stupid girl… it had taken years to get it that long.

I screwed my face up and bit the inside of my cheek. Crying wouldn't' help anyone and it wouldn't get my hair back. What a fucking awful day.

I also felt very cold and curled up into a ball, wrapping my arms around my legs and burying my face into my knees. I was thirsty, but I didn't want to move. I didn't want anyone to speak to me… I just wanted to be left al—

"About time you woke up."

Why couldn't he give me even just an hour to come to terms with this? In all the time I'd been here, I hadn't once asked for anything except a few more clothes.

"Go 'way." I croaked into my knee.

"We need to know what happened. Have your wits returned to you now?" his tone was a little too biting.

"They never left," I retorted, raising my head to glare at him with doubtlessly red-rimmed eyes. "And you can sod off."

Tristan snorted and leaned against the wall. He was sitting on the adjacent bed and looked very annoyed. "Believe me; I would rather watch Romans practice their marching than be here. But Arthur wants your account of events before they question the man found in the hallway with you."

That wasn't good.

"I want to see him." I said, slowly sitting up. Then I noticed that I was still wearing my blood-soaked clothes and paused. "After a bath and change of clothes," I amended. I smelt horrible and probably looked worse.

Tristan looked at me with badly concealed surprise. "Absolutely not, you are staying right here. I will arrange for a fresh tunic to be brought to you and an orderly can help you wash—"

"I cut my head; I'm not dying," I said, my own annoyance growing. "I must go see him." I couldn't say exactly why in front of the curious soldiers in the other beds, but surely Tristan could pick up the underlying message that I had to get out of here? That prisoner would tell them that I recovered from a cut throat and that would cause all sorts of problems.

"Why?" Tristan growled, getting to his feet and executing a very impressive loom over me.

I flicked my gaze to the other patients and then very subtly shook my head. Tristan's eyes narrowed in outright suspicion, but I knew I had won. Temporarily, at least.

"Very well… I will tell Arthur that you are still asleep, but you must be ready to speak to him tomorrow." I knew he wouldn't be able to delay it any longer than that and I nodded. "Kahedin or Gawain will take you over to my room and can organize a trip to the baths tonight."

"What?" I squeaked. But the awful glare I got in response brooked no argument. I sighed and gingerly touched my head. I couldn't accurately assess the damage until I got hold of a mirror and the bandages didn't help.

"Sleep." He ordered, and then rested a hand on my cheek for a moment, tilting my head back so he could look into my face for a moment. Then he leaned down to whisper in my ear: "I'm glad you are alright."

If he could call this 'alright', we needed to have a serious talk. I closed my eyes and hummed in agreement. I wasn't the most demonstrative of people, but I'll admit that he had been very attentive during this incident. So I would meekly acquiesce to this small pretense of affection. Then he straightened, squeezed my shoulder and left with a curt nod to the medicus. That was my cue.

Ignoring the stares from patients and orderlies, I lay back down and tried to doze off while listening to the chatter of the infirmary.

As it turned out, Gawain would be busy with assignments from Arthur for the day. So Kahedin had been the one to fetch me back to Tristan's room. I felt him gently rub my arm to wake me up and I rewarded him with a silent, rebuking glare.

He shook his head at the sight and without further warning, scooped my up into his arms.

Being carried around was getting really boring. I actually liked travelling under my own steam. It wasn't my fault I looked really pathetic.

"After the day I've had, this debacle was the last thing I needed." He muttered angrily, striding out of the infirmary without as much as a backward glance at the medical staff. "Caring for a feeble slave like some dog when there is so much to do…"

I resented his little rant, but was too dizzy to really retort. So I just rested my aching head against his collarbone and hoped he wouldn't drop me onto the bed.

"… and then Tristan says that I've got to take you into the baths, after hours, and make sure you don't drown. Then I have to fetch us dinner and protect you from anything. Including the cold. Perhaps I ought to start charging a fee for all these favours."

"Where is he now?" I asked.

"With Arthur; they're discussing what to do with the spy and whether to tell the Prefect." Kahedin snorted. "You might as well tell a basket-weaver about it… the man's only interested in keeping the governor happy."

"I can help…" I murmured. "I think I can convince the spy to talk."

"Oh he'll talk. Tristan wants to be the first to question him. Not that I can blame him… it is rather personal."

"Huh?" I wasn't being very articulate.

Kahedin kicked open the door to the barracks and shot me an incredulous look. "Clearly you missed the part where he was beside himself with worry for you."

"Really? I thought he'd be glad to be rid of me." I said.

Kahedin laughed and squeezed me slightly. "Idiot, despite the fact you two fight constantly, he's actually pretty fond of you. It's just like watching Cador and Dinadan."

"Oh." I felt like a bit of an idiot. "Does that mean I could drive Tristan's life debt even deeper into the negative with this accidental attack?"

"Why would you do that?"

"I want to barter for a few days off." I said. We had reached Tristan's room and Kahedin gently laid me on the bed while he fetched me clean clothes and washing accoutrements. Then we made our way to the baths. I insisted on walking, but found I needed to lean heavily on Kahedin's arm, because I was still horribly dizzy. Once at there, Kahedin bribed the guard to let us in, saying that he had to delay his bath and I was his attendant.

The guard looked curiously at my gore-stained appearance, but didn't argue with the knight and let us enter.

"I'll just wait out here…" Kahedin said when we reached the door to the caldarium. He didn't seem keen on upsetting me by suggesting he would be spying on my ablutions.

"Oh for goodness' sake," I said. "Right now, I really don't care. But please help me get these bandages off my head."

Kahedin looked doubtful, and I threw up my hands. "Don't act all modestly now," I said, my tone half growling, half pleading. "If my self-appointed 'elder brothers' disapprove, then I promise I'll save you from their wrath."

A particularly worrying smile appeared on his face and he obediently followed me to the caldarium. However, when I began to undress, he steadfastly faced the wall and refused to turn around until he heard me enter the water. What a gentleman.

I tugged off the horribly sticky, smelly clothes with mingling relish and disgust, and walked over to the pool of hot water, sighing in pleasure as the heat worked its way into my bones.

* * *

KAHEDIN: 

This was terrible. To help another man's woman bathe was utterly unthinkable. In all the names of the gods, Kation was like Tristan's little sister! This was so very wrong. Tristan would have every right to demand blood for this. But she didn't seem to care. Short of childbirth, she was in fact, inviting him to watch a woman's most private act.

But nothing would come of it. And he wouldn't be tempted to do anything, since she looked more like a boy than a twenty-one summers' old woman. But here was one who fearlessly clambered along rooftops, had impressive skills in horsemanship, an uncomplaining work ethic and an utter disdain for rank and status. Such things took an inner strength that most women lacked, and he respected her.

At the sound of her sliding into the water, he turned slowly, and saw she was with her back to him. Her skin was as white and smooth as marble in the dim lamplight. He could at least take the bandages off her head and tell her if she'd missed any bloodstains. But he was nobody's personal slave and he wouldn't be massaging oil into her skin like one.

He walked over to the edge of the pool, rolled up his trousers, and tugged off his boots. Then he sat on the edge of the bath adjacent to her and put his aching feet into the water with a sigh.

"It's supposed to be my bath time, not yours." She pointed out.

"Shove off, I've earned this." He grunted back, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. There was a slosh of water, and a small hand poked his leg. He stared down at her, and was amused to see that she had one arm crossed over her utterly flat chest.

"Bandages," she said curtly, turning away from him so he could attack the knots more easily.

As he leaned forward, he noticed her slender ribcage, tapering to a narrow waist and a small, pert—

He quickly sat up straight and unwound the bandages, keeping his eyes trained firmly on his task. "All done," he said.

"Thanks," she moved back to where they had left the sponge and washcloth.

Kahedin closed his eyes at the sound of water splashing, and into his mind the vision of a birthmark that he'd noticed just above her…

_Focus!_ Ask her about the spy!

"So what happened before he screamed?" he asked, staring at the ceiling.

"Like I said, he attacked me. And then I woke up, surprised him, he cried out in alarm and then Tristan attacked us with the door." She sighed.

Kahedin looked at her then. "So he hit you across the head with the knife?"

That seemed too far-fetched. He might have stabbed her, or knocked her out, or strangled her, but slashing at the back of her head…

Kation didn't seem to mind his direct stare. "Oh, the wound was from the studded door. He hit me over the back of the head." From that angle, the water reflected the dim lamplight and concealed all that lay beneath its shimmering surface.

Kahedin mulled this over. "What was he doing when you awoke?"

"He had his ear to the door."

"And the knife?"

"He'd left it lying on top of me; doubtless as a message to Arthur." She snorted at the idea, and lifted a leg out of the water to clean at a distinctly grubby knee. "It was too obvious – whoever put him up to it would have known that."

"Why do you think the spy had been hired by someone?" Kahedin asked sharply. Was she really that cunning and suspicious? Tristan _had_ warned him she was devious, but to this extent?

"He wasn't dressed well enough to be carrying around a nice dagger like that."

"They could simply have been a disguise."

"But he was wearing his own boots," she countered, carefully wiping the sponge over her face and rinsing the blood out of her hair. "Anyone can wear a raggedy tunic and pretend to be a farmhand – but those thick studded shoes fit him and they weren't very high quality. If he had been a proper spy, he might have even worn shoes that helped him be quiet as he tip-toed along the hallway, but I easily heard him coming. No professional would make such a simple mistake."

Kahedin was impressed with her reasoning, and resolved to have another look at the man's clothes the following morning, since everyone would be heading for bed by now. He stifled a yawn at the thought.

"Tristan tells me you want to see the prisoner. Why? Did he realise you're a girl?"

"I don't think so… but I want to be sure." She said, and sank up to her chin in the blissfully hot water.

As Kahedin let his mind ponder the implications of this, an image rose unbidden in his mind. "Any theories about who would be interested in our meetings?"

"I'd have to look at some scrolls before I name anyone in particular. But there are a few who spring to mind." She mused, stretching her arms above her head and yawning.

In the subsequent quiet, Kahedin silently castigated himself. He was _not _having dangerous thoughts concerning that birthmark… she was Tristan's problem… Tristan's _responsibility. _She was also uninspiring and flat-chested; sarcastic, stubborn, rude, violent and completely impossible. And He was incredibly angry at Tristan for putting him up to this. But he'd never be able to look Kation in the eye again without the dark knowledge of that saucy mark in the small of her back springing to mind…

Curse it! He had to focus! The little she-devil was utterly repellent! Think of Brenna's luscious curves or Verica's _enormous_—

"Close your eyes," she said a trifle wearily.

Kahedin obediently closed his eyes and turned his head away. After all, he respected her, despite his improper thoughts. And since when was he given to moral self-flagellation?!

He heard her climb out and his impulses were stronger than his morals.

"Oh shit and hellfire! Please tell me I didn't just see that!" he howled, falling back with his hands pressed to his face.

She had wrapped the towel around her hips, and Kahedin had clearly seen a narrow chest, with not even the slightest of suggestions that she might be female. Dark nipples were hard in the chill of the air and a taut flat stomach was framed by the suggestion of narrow hip bones.

"I told you to close your eyes, you pervert!" she snapped angrily.

Kahedin groaned theatrically and peered around his fingers to see she had turned her back to him and was tugging on her undershirt.

He closed his eyes with a strong sense of disappointment; he really did like women who could fill out a dress. She was starkly underdeveloped and made him think of little girls, yet to experience even the beginning of womanhood, rushing around in nothing but short kilts in the heat of the summer sun. All lascivious thoughts about _that birthmark _would now, mercifully, be forever tainted.

He heard bare feet padding over to him and a small foot connected sharply with his ribs.

"All is safely hidden away, Sir Delicate," she snapped sarcastically.

He warily opened his eyes, and saw she had also pulled on her leggings. "Tristan and Gawain are going to use me for as a target for archery practise," he moaned, climbing to his feet. Kation tilted her head as she looked down at him.

"Don't worry, I won't tell them."

Kahedin was instantly suspicious. "Why?"

"It doesn't concern them. I will defend my own honour." She said firmly, turning away and slipping into her outer tunic. She wrapped the long front halves across her chest and secured them with a clean sash.

They gathered everything up in tense silence and Kation reached up to gently run her fingers over the stitches in the back of her head, her expression clouded. "It looks very ugly, doesn't it?" she said quietly.

"It will heal in no time." He assured her. "And just think, you and Bors now have something in common."

"How wonderful," she said dryly.

They left the baths and walked through the dark streets side by side. Kation holding her bundle of wash kit and dirty clothes in one hand, and clutching Kahedin's hand in her other for balance.

"Maybe this is the start of something," she mused. "Tristan may try tattooing my face so he can spot me in a crowd."

"I'm sure that Bedwyr would love to mark you."

"Bedwyr did Tristan's tattoos?"

"Indeed. Tristan said it was something his tribe did, but he had been taken by the Romans before their shaman could apply the marks. So Bedwyr obliged instead. He finished his term of service two years after we arrived – so there wasn't much anyone could do to stop him, even if they did disapprove."

"Hmm. And he stayed for the love of a good woman."

"Indeed. I know of no other Sarmatian who has done so."

"Any current knights who might also stay?"

"If Vanora has her way, then Bors isn't going anywhere once the baby is born."

"And he will naturally pressure Dagonet to stay with him as they are cousins." Kation said with a smile.

They entered the barracks and an all-too-familiar voice halted their progress back to Tristan's room.

"Well, well… isn't this sweet?"

* * *

**Oooh, who is this person?! Care to guess? **

**Reviews make me write faster. ^_^**


	11. Chapter 11

**Hello all! Sorry for the long silence – things got super hectic in 'real world'. Some of it was wondrous and lovely, other parts were disastrously stressful. In between these extreme highs and lows I found solace in mapping out the rest of this fic. Seriously, there is a huge piece of paper *covered* in connecting lines, lists and OCD diagrams of forts, camps and battlefields. **

**Disclaimers: ****I do not own anything except the aforementioned plan, plot, OCs and the laptop on which this has been written. Even the internet connection has been paid for by my parents. Any and all mistakes/typos herein that escaped my notice are my own (obviously). **

* * *

Beside me, Kahedin stiffened and I felt his hand tighten painfully around mine. We both knew and thoroughly disliked that voice.

Gaheris.

I realise that at this moment in time, it might be unfair of me to prejudice the readers against this man, but I hope that subsequent evidence will at least partly validate my opinions.

He stepped out of the shadows and his white-blond hair shone silver in the moonlight.

"Why are you lurking in the stables at such a time?" Kahedin snarled. I tried to squeeze his hand in warning, but my knuckles were already being pulverised in his angry grip. Hadn't I suffered enough today?

"I just wanted to make sure we were all accounted for, especially after such a dramatic evening." Gaheris said, but his expression bore no relation to his words. His ice-blue eyes were cold and mocking as he glared at us. I deeply regretted being unarmed, but it would have been too chancy to work around Arthur all day and risk being discovered with a knife.

"Really? How thoughtful of you," Kahedin said loftily. He was staying calm, which was a good sign, and I just hoped it lasted longer than the deceptive conversation.

"Just looking out for my fellow Sarmatian brothers," Gaheris affirmed, his face twisted into an ugly sneer.

I felt my stomach turn over as Kahedin's grip suddenly slackened. Oh no… he was going to push me back and then launch himself at Gaheris… I grabbed at his limp fingers and squeezed them as hard as I could, ignoring the pain in my own knuckles at the effort. I really didn't want Kahedin being goaded into a fight with Gaheris. The scout may have been leaner, but he was also a lot faster.

However, if Gaheris could land even one serious blow on him, Kahedin would be slowed long enough for the tables to turn. I knew every knight's fighting style, and this was one match I never wanted to see. When two men hated each other this much, any contest between them was likely to dissolve into a murderous endeavour.

I could only hope that Kahedin had more self-control than Gaheris.

When my effort to physically shake him from the stand-off failed, I moved out of my companion's shadow, so we were standing side by side, facing Gaheris head on. "Don't do this, he's not worth it," I whispered coldly, forgetting myself and speaking in modern English. I knew neither man would understand me, but it was the sentiment, rather than the words that mattered in that moment. I really needed to break the staring contest as soon as possible.

It seemed to do the trick. Kahedin answered me in Sarmatian, the language that the knights spoke when they didn't have to use Latin, and which he had been talking to Gaheris in. "Let's go, Kat – Tristan's expecting you." He tugged me away, his gaze sliding off Gaheris with searing contempt. We climbed the stairs to Tristan's room in tense silence, leaving the pale knight in the stables.

Kahedin stormed into Tristan's room, dragging me behind him. We saw our host, already changed for bed and cleaning his nails fastidiously with the tip of a knife. He looked relieved to see us.

_Had Tristan and I gone past being allies to actual friends?_ I wondered to myself. Kahedin had assured me of his genuine concern this evening, but I wasn't ready to commit to such a belief without sober proof.

I threw my blood-encrusted clothes in a heap by the door, resolving to deal with them in the morning, while Kahedin launched into a hushed, but fevered diatribe against Gaheris. He made several references to an 'accident', which, by its description, sounded more like a premeditated crime to me. I silently put away the wash kit in an open trunk that I had taken as my own, and pondered when Kahedin would sod off so we could all go to sleep. I was feeling dreadfully vulnerable after his glances in the caldarium and the brief, but highly unpleasant, encounter with Gaheris had only shaken me further.

Something about the mention of 'Sarmatian brothers' had stung Kahedin's control more than anything else. I would have wondered upon the meaning behind this further, but Kahedin's whispered tirade was more distracting for its raw vitriol.

"… and then he has the audacity to say he worries for the rest of us! Calling us 'brothers' indeed! I would sooner be kin with a viper! That bastard's luck on the battlefield is only testament to how utterly repellent even the Woads and Saxons find him!"

Tristan was nodding sympathetically, but I noticed his eyes were lit with tolerant amusement. I stuffed down my own smile and kicked off my boots. As I moved over to the pair, my increasing sleepiness sent me stumbling into Tristan. He caught me easily and propped me up against his side, one arm holding me upright around my shoulders. I yawned again and blinked blearily up at Kahedin's slightly blurred features.

Tristan was saying something, but I only caught the end of it: "… all tired. We will talk tomorrow."

I forced myself to focus and smiled. "Thanks for the baths and the clothes." I mumbled – I wasn't making very much sense. But even though I was almost asleep on my feet, I could clearly discern from their glares that I was in trouble. But I wasn't sure what I'd done. Both men then exchanged dubious looks above me about some silent issue and shrugged resignedly.

With a sigh, Kahedin relented in his glare and a tired, blank expression lifted a hand to ruffle my non-existent hair. Then, remembering the wound, he pulled back and let his fingers fall onto my shoulder.

After a small moment of quiet, Tristan sucked in a breath and broke the spell of waking sleep that had settled over us. "Bed," he growled, gently wheeling me around and pushing me down onto the aforesaid piece of furniture.

I managed to untie my sash and shrug off the tunic, but the rest failed me. I threw them onto the floor, and curled up under the covers with a sigh and closed my eyes. If Tristan and Kahedin were still talking, I didn't hear their words. I was too exhausted.

The door shut with a soft thud, and I felt the bed rock slightly as Tristan joined me. He was out like a snuffed lamp seconds later and the warmth of his back against mine was a comfort. I joined him in Dreamland seconds later.

* * *

TRISTAN: 

He awoke sluggishly and the small form at his side was snuffling softly into her pillow, her arm dangling over the side of the bed as she lay on her stomach. The noise was simultaneously irritating and amusing. He rolled onto his back and stared at her. What drew his gaze was the wound that curved round the back of her head in an ugly red crescent.

When she felt his weight shift, she jerked awake and sat up in one swift, violent movement. "Ugh…" she put a hand to her forehead, her eyes closed in discomfort. "Please tell me yesterday was some hideous aberration of the mind…"

"If that was the case, you would still have all your hair and the most shocking incident of yesterday would have been that everyone else, including Arthur and the prisoner, suffered the same waking nightmare last night." He said dryly.

She sighed in disappointment and glared at him through her fingers. "I have to tell Arthur what happened, don't I?" she mumbled.

"Yes."

"Hmm… I'd rather spend the day trying to unravel the mystery of who sent the spy into the fort." She said, and stretched. "Can I go see the prisoner first?"

"Only if we go now."

That goaded her into action. Throwing off the blankets, she nearly fell over in her haste to get to her clothes. Tristan denied himself the smile that threatened to break across his face at her rushed clumsiness. The livid injury on her head was more than a little sobering and declared to all his utter failure to protect one girl. What good was he, if he couldn't do that?

Kation was selecting a bunch of clothes and dashed out, doubtlessly hurrying to fetch some water.

For someone who had been attacked twice the previous evening, she seemed to be frightfully energetic. But at that moment Tristan didn't have the inclination to delve into her past or her sinister personality, wisely assuming that whatever it was would be ultimately useless and disturbing.

He swung his legs out of bed and wandered into Kahedin's room.

"We're going to the prison." He informed his yawning friend, poking his head around the door. "You're welcome to tag along."

Kahedin's reaction was just as hasty and amusing as Kation's. The knight shot to his feet, grabbed his boots and charged for the door, nearly crashing into Kation who was returning to their room. Water slopped from the bucket and onto the floor as they both recoiled; Kahedin made another attempt to get past, making a garbled explanation as he disappeared round the corner. Kation turned a puzzled look onto Tristan, who shrugged and returned to their room to dress.

Later at breakfast, when Vanora caught sight of Kation's latest fashion accessory (the stitches) and the accompanying new hairstyle, she had immediately dealt a mighty blow to Tristan's arm and glared at Kahedin. They had only stopped by the tavern for a quick breakfast, but Bors' lover waylaid them with inescapable verbal torment. She had then produced a wool hat which she had made for Bors, and insisted that Kation cover up the 'dreadful wound'. Despite being no follower of any recognisable human fashion, even Tristan could confidently say that the thing was extremely ugly. Clearly the woman's talents lay elsewhere.

Kation waved it off, with murmurs of healer's orders to allow air to get to the wound. Vanora was doubtful, but wouldn't contradict an expert's instructions.

"At least don't go visit the monster that did it," she begged, looking extremely worried.

Kation smiled slightly and flicked her grey eyes to Tristan for a single moment, but did not reveal it was her ally who had torn her head open. "No, I must. I have to report what happened to Arthur." She shrugged unhelpfully and snatched up a lump of bread and an apple before making to flee. Vanora was too quick on her feet, and despite her advanced state of pregnancy, she grabbed Kation's arm and pulled her back into a strong embrace.

"I am glad that you are going to be alright." She said, and her eyes glistened. Pregnancy made women's emotions terrifyingly changeable.

After a moment, Kation extricated herself. "So am I," she said, with a very serious look on her face.

They ate on the go while taking the quickest route to the prison. As she nibbled on the honeyed slice of bread, Kation's face was pensive.

"Would you wait outside while I talk to him?" she asked quietly.

"I suppose…" Tristan grumbled. "But we will be listening through the door."

Kation pulled a face, but couldn't forbid it. She knew her words would fall on deaf ears.

"After a brief review of a few papers, I might be able to shed better light upon the matter." She threw a concerned look at them both. "Would Arthur permit me to join the… investigation?"

"You are better acquainted with that archive than the rest of us; I think your involvement will be essential." Kahedin said seriously. His hair was particularly wild, still neglected and untamed from sleep, and he kept throwing oddly loaded glances at Kation.

Tristan resolved to have a few quiet words with Kahedin while the girl had her conversation with the prisoner.

* * *

We were immediately waved through the doors and into the prison. Tristan escorted me to the cell and then landed a heavy kick on the bars, startling the man chained to the wall into wakefulness.

He had bandages on his face, but was otherwise unharmed. I felt no sympathy for him – he had murdered me in cold blood and I was tempted to have a little fun before getting some straight answers from him.

The man jerked, and looked at us, tension in every line of his body and face. At the sight of me, he let out a scream of pure terror. I allowed myself a faint, close-lipped smile and clasped my hands behind my back innocently. Tristan threw me an alarmed look as he glanced between the panicking prisoner and my calm demeanour.

"What a wonderful start." I remarked evenly over the din, and threw an amused look at Tristan, who was now staring at me with great suspicion and a little uncertainty. "I will be perfectly fine. Now go have that talk with Kahedin."

His expression canvassed his surprise that I knew about that unspoken decision of his, but to any woman it would have been painfully obvious that Tristan had been extremely doubtful of Kahedin's conduct in the baths. With a final loaded look he left, hands clenched at his sides.

I turned back to the prisoner and crouched down in front of the bars. He had finally stopped screaming, but had dissolved into unceasing whimpers.

"See here," I began – the man flinched and tried to fold himself into a smaller space in the corner of the cell. This would take forever. "What do you think happened yesterday?"

"Demon!" the man howled, pointing a trembling finger at me. Any onlooker would be fully justified in believing the man to be mad. Only I knew it to be a rather dramatic and superstitious manifestation of dread.

"Perhaps," I conceded, inspecting my fingers as if this whole thing was very boring, which it was. "And if you don't want to meet my great and terrible master in the afterlife, then you must answer my questions."

"N-no… no…" the man sobbed, his eyes never leaving mine.

I sighed. "You have not gone mad. I am from hell, sent to serve the pagan knights and the holy warrior Artorius Castus, son of the slain Pendragon." I said, with as much gravitas as I could muster. I then pulled a piece of twisted metal from my pocket and began to pick the lock. Once open, I ignored the man's renewed wailing and stepped inside.

"Be silent!" I barked, for once having to raise my voice to be heard as I stood over him. "I will not harm you, mortal, if you talk to me."

The man stopped wailing, but it was clear from his incessant trembling and moaning that he was not going to calm down further.

"Who owns the knife you used to cut my throat?" I asked slowly, tilting my head back and tugging my scarf down to reveal a completely unblemished neck.

The man cringed, hesitating. I sighed and crouched down, just out of his reach.

"You're a dead man, either way. If you tell me what I want to know, then I will see to it you have a quick end. You don't have to be tortured, because I can tell you are not in charge. Perhaps you could tell me who asked you to spy on Arthur?"

The man looked thoroughly spooked, but I could be patient. I waited in silence for him to answer.

"It… it was a servant of Baron Donatus…" he whispered as softly as possible.

I blinked, but otherwise steadied myself enough not to openly react. Paulus Donatus was one of the most powerful land-owners along the eastern region of the northern territories. He was rich in agricultural profit, and had significant influence over local politics.

To think that he was now controlling a network of spies and was poking about in Arthur's business was a chilling thought. For a start, he had almost limitless sources of wealth to tap into, and a list of his friends and business associates read like an ancient _Who's Who_.

We were more than a little screwed.

I leaned forward, glaring fiercely. "If you're lying—"

"I'm not! I'm not! It was him!" the man cried, covering his face with his hands. "It was the servant Iustus! He handles all his masters' affairs. He paid me to report all the meetings held by Arthur and his knights." He was babbling now, and I nodded encouragingly.

"And the knife? Why did you cut my throat, when all you had to do was hit me round the head?"

"I was told to get rid of anyone who might witness me… if they would not be missed."

I sincerely hoped he would repeat that in Tristan or Gawain's hearing.

I stood, brushing off my knees and tried my best to loom over him. "Arthur will question you later today. It would be better if you would be even more forthcoming about all this with them, mostly because _it is in your interest to do so._" I said emphatically. "If you are not, I will know. I will be listening, even if you can't see me." Because lying on the roof of the prison building wasn't a crime. "And if you do not tell all this and more to Arthur, then I will make sure that you are tortured to death."

And with that final extremely brutal promise, I exited the cell, shut the door behind me and left. The sound of the man's sobs reverberated off the walls as I knocked on the prison door. Kahedin opened it and ushered me outside, looking concerned.

"More screaming then," he said a trifle wearily. "How did you get any sense out of him?"

"Never mind that, what have you done with Tristan?" I snapped, looking around in concern.

"What makes you think I did anything to him?"

I rolled my eyes. "I knew Tristan was going to have a talk with you about what happened in the baths. So… what was said? Does it have anything to do with why he isn't here?"

"You are quite the little interrogator, Washboard." He said with a grin, as if this situation was somehow cute.

"This is no time for joking. He gave me some clues that I need to go and investigate immediately." I snapped. Tristan and Arthur would have to wait. "I'm going to the records room."

"Wait! They want to talk to you!" Kahedin said, chasing after me.

"Then they know where to find me." I said, my voice steady, despite my rising ire. This was not good. "Has Arthur reported the capture of a spy? How many people know about this?"

"Um… the infirmary knows, since someone had to check him over and make sure he didn't die before we could question him…" Kahedin said, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

I suppressed a snarl of frustration and walked faster. The orderlies were some of the worst gossips the fort had. "Who else?"

"Vanora knows, but I think Bors told her to keep quiet about it."

"Let's make sure."

* * *

KAHEDIN: 

"Vanora!"

The redhead looked up. The baby was growing rapidly and Vanora was forced to rely ever more heavily upon Brenna for support. It was only going to get worse for the poor, beautiful blonde in the coming months.

Kation was getting scarier by the minute. The way she looked increasingly closed off and how penetrating her gaze had become. They marched over to Vanora and the girl whispered to Bors' lover in a fierce undertone.

"Did you say anything about last night to anyone?" she said. "Who knows?"

"No. I didn't say anything. But I did hear some people whispering about an arrest of a local," Vanora said, looking worried. None of them had seen Kation looking this tense before.

"Are you sure no one knows what the man was really doing? Or where he was arrested?"

"Well, only Brenna, but she wouldn't tell anyone."

Kation's jaw clenched, and she glanced at Kahedin: "Can you find her and bring her here, please?" She said in the same urgent whisper.

Kahedin didn't understand the urgency, but fetched her back.

"Um… is something wrong?" Brenna asked, her gentle voice tinged with concern at her friends' worried expression.

"Yes," Kation said bluntly. "You are now part of a very privileged group of people who know the truth of what went on last night. However, if we are going to fix this problem and defeat our enemies, we must keep it a complete secret. I may need you and Vanora to spread lies around the tavern and fort…"

"What? Why?" Brenna looked shocked. She was a good Christian woman, lying was a sin to her.

"Because we must confuse our enemies. They have spies who are always listening and it is imperative that they don't know what we're really doing." Kation explained patiently. "Can you do this? I know it seems bad, but you will save lives. Including mine."

It was a nice touch, since Kation looked so vulnerable in that moment: her hair shorn off, her eyes red-rimmed and her face pale and pinched with pain and anxiety. But she was determined and resolute.

Brenna's resistance wavered and broke under three pleading expressions. "Very well… but I will have to pray a _lot _to absolve myself." She said, sounding wretched.

"Whatever, just so long as you don't talk to anyone about this," Kation said. "Now that's done, I have to go." She let Vanora squeeze her hands, and nodded to Brenna, before spinning on her heel and marching off. Kahedin sighed and followed her.

Where did she get that energy from?

Once in the records room, Kation opened a cabinet and pulled out a sheaf of papers. "How fast can you read Latin?" she asked, slamming the papyrus onto Arthur's desk and turning back to the shelf for more.

Kahedin gulped. "Not very…" he said, feeling embarrassed.

Kation groaned. "Very well. Do you know someone who can?"

"Um… Jols?" Kahedin guessed.

"Right." She strode past him, heading for the stables.

"Does that mean I can go back to running around after Tristan?" Kahedin shouted after her sarcastically.

"Do what you like, just don't talk or get in my way." She threw back over her shoulder in her 'boy voice'.

He saluted mockingly and stormed off. When she was this focused and dismissive, she wasn't even remotely good company.

* * *

TRISTAN: 

"Where is he?" Arthur said impatiently. They had been waiting in the stables and Lancelot had now joined them with a bundle of bread and cheese for breakfast.

Tristan didn't immediately answer. He was thinking about the spy. And although he had no idea who sent the man, he had a very good idea where to start asking questions… the dark, red and black thoughts running through his mind retreated to the shadows when he spied Kation charging into the stables, head held high and looking about with an urgent, sharp gaze.

"Ah, Kation!" Arthur raised his arm and beckoned the girl over. She saw their group and visibly sagged, diminishing with every step until she was standing in front of them – pale and small.

"Where have you been?" Tristan growled, feigning his irritation.

"I was looking for your enemies," she mumbled, staring stonily at her boots. She sounded cross.

"I think you've had enough encounters with such people already." Arthur said, his voice tinged with concern. "Where did you go?"

"The records room."

"What? Now the Woads are trying to read the mail?" Lancelot said with a teasing sneer.

Kation's jaw clenched, but she said nothing, not even lifting her head.

"We need you to tell us what you remember about yesterday." Arthur said softly. "Perhaps somewhere more private?"

They all tramped back to the records room and Arthur sat at his desk. "So what happened?" he said.

"I was waiting to be called back in, when I heard someone walking down the hall. They were trying to be sneaky," and here Kation pulled a derisive expression, "but it was a truly pathetic attempt. Just as I was about to confront him, he ran at me and hit me across the back of the head with the pommel of the knife. I was down before I knew what was happening. I awoke sooner than he expected, and must have surprised him because as I tried to reach him, he screamed. Then you slammed the door open, and it struck us both." She shrugged and looked at her boots again. "I think he is a little mad, he screamed when I went to see him this morning."

"You visited him this morning? Why?" Arthur sounded shocked and a little annoyed at this.

"I was curious."

And that was probably the best answer that they could expect. It was clearly a lie, but none of them could see the point in demanding the truth. After all, it would be unfathomable and probably insane.

"And?"

"Nothing sir. He overreacted. It's rather embarrassing, though – he thinks I'm some sort of demon. I took the liberty of not correcting his assumption."

"Why ever not? Do you realise how dangerous such rumours are?" Lancelot said sharply, speaking up for the first time.

Kation finally showed a little more assertion. She glanced at Lancelot incredulously and then slid the look to Arthur, who frowned slightly at her audacity. "Because if he fears me, then we need not physically torture him for information," she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "He has already said he will tell you anything you want to know."

"Why would he do that?" Arthur asked suspiciously.

"Because not only is he convinced that he shall see me in hell, waiting for him; I also promised him a quick death."

"Who are you to make such promises?" Tristan said sharply, barely resisting the urge to smack her round the head. The sight of her livid wound still made him cringe.

"Your representative, of course, master." She replied promptly, standing a little straighter.

As Lancelot laughed and Arthur repressed his smile to a mere twitch of the lips, Tristan did smack her lightly on the arm. She smiled, knowing that she'd won, and continued. "I really do think he'll talk."

Arthur stood, and his expression was grim and closed once more. "Let's go talk to him, then," he said.

As they all left for the prison, Tristan hung back, detaining Kation for a little private talk. "Since when did you start taking charge?" he growled, standing very close to her. She tipped her head back to glare up at him. The force of her cold expression seemed too great for the situation.

"I have already conducted a most informative interview with that scoundrel; I know who sent him and who we must investigate—"

"And who is that?" he interrupted.

"Baron Paulus Donatus." She replied promptly, not a trace of guile in her voice. "We need to know why he is doing this and what information he was after. To do this, I need another able-minded person to go through the records with me."

"Jols may help… but I think he has to consult Bedwyr about something." Tristan said. "Do you know of anyone else?"

"No. And we can't afford to let anyone else know what's going on. I'll just have to do it myself." She sighed and scrubbed a hand through the crown of her head, ruffling the hair into wild spikes. She winced and the rictus of pain that flashed across her face made Tristan realise just how quickly she had tried to resume her normal activities.

"You ought not to push yourself, so." He murmured, even more quietly than their previous hushed tones.

She waved it off. "I'll be fine. Now go to Arthur – and don't let word spread of this. We must stay as quiet as possible. Our enemies cannot know that we are now hunting them, or they will start to think of ways to retaliate. We are not ready for them to make a move against us."

Tristan nodded, it made sense. "I will convince Arthur." He promised.

"We need to be as fast and silent as wolves," she said, her face alive with keen anticipation. "Come find me after Arthur is finished interrogating the prisoner. Tell me everything."

He barely had time to question her _orders _before she'd clapped him on the arm in retaliation and stalked back to the records' room.

As he made his way to the cell where the prisoner was being kept, Tristan pondered this new side to his 'slave'. To receive such commands from her was a preposterous notion and an insulting deed. And yet he had not questioned the appointed tasks because he was convinced she knew what she was doing. Her mind was proving to be an engine for tactical thinking and she was clearly, albeit perversely, enjoying herself.

* * *

**Well, well… Things are getting exciting, no? **

**Sad news: I will be away for the next ten days. Then I will formally resume my studies. So while I will not abandon this fic, I will be unable to write so speedily in the future. **

**Apologies to all loyal readers and newcomers – your unceasing support means the continuation of this fic, and I would not be here without you. **

**~ Leraika.**

**PS: Would you like romance? Several have expressed interest, but I am still hesitating. If you do (or if you don't), let me know your thoughts. Your *detailed* thoughts... ;) **


	12. Chapter 12

**Hello everyone! Turns out I am not dead! **

**Firstly, I apologise profusely for the long silence (I won't be speeding up any time soon), but I am extremely busy, so updates will now be slower. But they will not die out completely. Also, this chapter was supremely difficult to write. Any and all mistakes/typos are my own, do not be afraid to point them out to me. **

**Secondly, thank you all so very much for your kind feedback – it really means a lot and I love your suggestions; because even if I do not write them in, they fuel my creativity. Your response has been overwhelming and deeply humbling. I am glad it pleases you so much. **

**Warnings:****nothing specific. Some swearing, no violence… *sigh* Need to fix that. ;)**

* * *

LANCELOT: 

The creepy little Kation had shown that sharp-edged spirit again. It was always interesting to see the way that the boy and Tristan constantly circled each other like a pair of feral beasts preparing to either go their separate ways or launch at each other with claws and fangs.

But it wasn't a sexual tension. For all his joking, he could see that the two were locked in a battle of wills rather than physical needs. They had an unspoken comradeship that defied all outside interference, although Gawain and Kahedin were making marked efforts to do so.

Tristan caught up with them as they entered the prison, he looked pensive and tense. "We mustn't let any others know. It would warn our enemies of our plans to investigate."

The others nodded in agreement. "Doubtless, this man was not their only spy," Lancelot said grimly. He really hated the idea that they had been so compromised for so long. And to what purpose?

Arthur frowned slightly in thought. "How wide does this spread? What do they seek?"

"Such answers will not come from the prisoner," Tristan muttered angrily. "Why tell a dog the plans of the master?"

"Exactly," and Lancelot silently wondered what would be the point of asking the prisoner anything more pertinent than who had sent him into the fort.

Without another word, they entered the cells and stared down at the man sitting at the back of his new living quarters. At the sight of them, the prisoner leapt to his feet and bowed hastily.

Lancelot exchanged a dubious glance with Tristan, but Arthur didn't show his surprise.

"I suggest you co-operate, for your own good. Otherwise we will have to persuade you to answer our questions." The half-Roman said coolly, crossing his arms over his chest as he gazed down at the cowering man who nodded eagerly.

"Certainly, sir! Yes sir!"

This was becoming ever stranger. Where was the resistance? The defiance? What had caused this man such obedience?

"That's awfully good of you," Lancelot drawled. "What convinced you to be so obliging?"

"It was… your… you have…" the man gulped and licked his lips. "It was your demon servant, sir." He said, looking straight at Tristan. Arthur and Lancelot both turned their full attention to Tristan, who looked scornful.

"Really." He said heavily. "Arthur, if he is going to be talking about invented demonic servants and the like then we are wasting our time."

"But it's true! You visited me this morning with it in tow! It said I wouldn't be tortured!" the man shouted, desperately struggling against the shackles holding him to the wall. "I will tell you _everything!"_

Tristan lifted a hand to rub his forehead and answered Arthur's questioning gaze. "It's true, I did visit him this morning. Kahedin can vouch for me. I simply wanted to see that he was in a fit state to talk; that is all."

They were getting off track. "Who sent you?" Arthur said, stepping closer to the bars. The man nodded, clearly glad to unburden himself.

"B-Baron Donatus…" the man said, with a tinge of _relief _in his voice.

Whether he was delusional, or really had been terrorised by someone without their knowledge, Lancelot could safely say that this was the strangest interrogation he had ever witnessed. But the name they had been given didn't allow him time to reflect upon the matter further.

"Baron Paulus Donatus?" Arthur said sharply. The prisoner nodded.

"His chief servant Iustus was the one who spoke to me. I was paid to report the details of your meetings."

"How long have you been spying on us?"

"N-nearly a year…"

This was a terrible revelation. Arthur's eyes closed momentarily, Tristan growled in the back of his throat and Lancelot threw his arms into the air with an angry grunt, turning away to pace up and down the length of the hall.

"And how many meetings did you report?"

"I do not know sir… every time one was held?"

Lancelot's steps grew faster. Tristan, ever internalising his emotions, took a deep breath and shot a glare at Arthur. He hadn't been the only one who had asked for greater secrecy, but had been the most persistent in his demands.

Arthur shook his head slightly. Now really wasn't the time to start this old argument again.

"And why did you attack the slave waiting outside? Why not just send him away?"

The man shuddered violently, clearly remembering something unpleasant. "My orders were to kill anyone who saw me outside the hall of the Round Table – if they would not be missed."

Tristan's eye twitch was all the warning they had.

And of course they missed it completely. So it took both Lancelot and Arthur to restrain him and drag him from the building.

"Easy!"

"Hey, you nearly took my eye out there!"

"Get off me!"

They hurled him through the door and then stood shoulder-to-shoulder, denying him re-entry.

Tristan flicked his braids out of his eyes and straightened, tall and proud. "By your leave, sir." He spoke with icy formality, quite unlike his usual speech pattern which bordered on casual insolence. "I have other duties to attend to."

Arthur nodded and without another word, Tristan threw a curt nod in Lancelot's direction and marched away, heading for the Sarmatian barracks.

"It is unusual to see him lose his temper quite so violently," Lancelot remarked breathlessly, straightening his tunic as they watched him go.

"Indeed. I still have my doubts about his relationship with his slave." Arthur said darkly.

"If it is as you think, then it doesn't matter," Lancelot said. "Really, Arthur, what he does in his spare time need not concern you. He is a good man."

Although it was said to reassure his friend, Lancelot had his own doubts about that last sentence. But good or not, Tristan was not one to inflict needless suffering – even on the battlefield.

Returning to the prisoner, they found that the man had indeed been only a small part of what was a much larger group. Originally a labourer from the south west, he had moved steadily north in search of work with his brother. But instead he had found employment on one of Donatus' farms as a shepherd and while the flocks were safely grazing in a paddock, the man was free to sneak into the fort. He had not been told of any plans, only that he had to keep collecting information.

"Well, now what?" Lancelot asked.

"We go and learn everything there is to know about the baron." Arthur said grimly, and they started for the records' rooms.

As they walked, Lancelot pondered… when Tristan visited the prisoner this morning, who was the 'demon' that he had brought with him?

Oh. The answer was absent from where it ought to be. Tristan was standing at the window, staring up towards the gutters, glaring in a most frightful manner. He was breathless and pale with anger. Perhaps he'd been speaking with his slave again… they were always bickering.

"What is this?" Arthur said sternly.

Tristan's jaw clenched, but he managed to turn away from the window. "Nothing," he said curtly, his eyes were blazing.

"A lover's quarrel?" Lancelot teased, sauntering closer to the window to look for the slave boy – there was no sign of him.

"Lancelot, unless you have further reason to be here, I suggest you go about your duties." Arthur warned.

"Wasn't I supposed to be researching the baron?" Lancelot asked innocently.

Arthur, caught in his own trap, scowled and sat down at his desk, upsetting a teetering stack of papers onto the floor.

* * *

TRISTAN: 

The spy's words had turned his blood to ice.

'… _would not be missed.' _

How dare he suppose that a knight's slave would not be missed?!

More importantly, the bastard had confessed to trying to kill her. How had she survived with naught but a split scalp?

All these and more questions raced through his mind as he slammed into Arthur's office. Kation looked up from the scroll she had been reading and her eyebrows rose in mild inquiry.

"Something wrong?"

He didn't bother to speak until he had caught her by the front of her tunic and hauled her out of the chair. She wasn't escaping this interrogation. But she read his intention in his face and, twisting from his grasp, leapt for the window, scrambling up and out onto the roof. Tristan grabbed her ankle and tried to tug her back, but she deftly kicked his fingers; he let go and she swiftly disappeared, silently flitting away along the rooftops.

Damn her. She was too quick.

Just as he was contemplating following her up and chasing her, he was interrupted by Lancelot and Arthur, and everyone went to work.

In truth, it was something of a relief. The task of labouring through reams of seemingly useless reports and records _in Latin _was a welcome distraction from his annoyance at her sudden disappearance.

She knew more than she had told them. Any of them. When they were alone he would demand the whole truth. If she was keeping secrets from him then how on earth could he protect her? Maybe he ought to explain it to her in that light. Perhaps she would understand.

Eventually, they broke for a light meal and when the sun set, Arthur announced that they had done enough for the day.

Lancelot fled before Arthur had even finished speaking and Tristan got to his feet in quiet relief. So far they had found out that apart from an under average yield from his farms during a particularly hard winter (hardly surprising) and an unexpected fondness for handsome young cup-bearers and boar-hunting, Baron Donatus did not appear to be the dissenter they now knew he was.

It was disappointing to say the least.

He wandered to the tavern and after a hearty meal with the other knights, he finally caught sight of Kation. She was hiding behind the counter with Brenna who was chatting animatedly. When she caught sight of him, she dropped him a wink before dragging Brenna away into the kitchens.

Disappeared again. And now she was enjoying their little game.

A travelling group of musicians had arrived in the village and Arthur had given them permits to play in the tavern. They were striking up a rousing tune and several knights were pulling girls into a dance. Tristan noticed the clench in his gut at the smiling sight. How could merriment continue while they were under such threats?

Gawain disappeared into the kitchens and retrieved Brenna who was blushing and struggling to get free. But the leonine knight cheerfully spun her about, smiling broadly in open good-humour and she relented with an eye-roll and a rueful grin.

Tristan turned his gaze back to the kitchens and saw Kation watching him from the shadows. With a grin, she disappeared once more and he followed, moving through the kitchens and out into the alley beyond.

"Kat_," _he said sternly to the darkness, "not another step."

She was nowhere to be seen, but he knew she was watching him. After all, if she hadn't wanted to be followed, she wouldn't have made her presence so obvious. The silence stretched out and weighed heavily on him.

"_Kat_…" he said, his temper wearing thin. "I did your share of the reading today – stop testing my patience."

She appeared over the lip of the roof of the adjacent building and propped her chin upon her hands. She looked positively impish in the moonlight as she studied him.

"You called?"

He repressed the urge to stoop, snatch up a handful of mud and hurl it at her. "Come down here immediately. I have to talk to you."

She duly moved down the edge of the roof, leaning far over the gutter so that she could hear his words. "Close enough?" she said tauntingly.

"No. Go back to my room and we shall speak there." He said curtly, turning to leave. He trusted her to find her own way across the rooftops.

"Wait a second!" she said, and with a soft scrabbling and a soft thump, she dropped to the ground and skipped over to him.

"What are you doing?"

"I wanted to see the others dancing. I know that we've got a really big, baronial problem right now, but we've never had musicians before – it will only take a moment." She walked around to the tavern and watched, fascinated, as the knights led the rest of the participants in a rousing group dance that involved skipping to and fro in circles, holding hands and breaking off to twirl and clap to the music. The firelight gave her sharp features a fierceness that did not totally belie her current state of health.

Tristan didn't recognise the dance, but then his had been one of the remotest of Sarmatian tribes.

A small cold hand brushed against his knuckles briefly. "Let's go, I am tired."

It was certainly understating her condition, but it was an admission of weakness nonetheless, so he followed her back to their room in silent agreement.

"What is it you have to say?" she asked quietly, not turning to look at him as she spoke but facing the window. Tristan didn't like the possibilities of her stance and walked past her to close and bolt the shutters. That would buy him enough time to catch her if she tried to run again.

"He tried to kill you, not knock you out. He confessed to it when Arthur questioned him." His voice had sunk to that velvety tone that boded ill for the spy in question.

Kation sucked in a surprised breath. "Oh."

"Indeed. So how is it a man with a knife, aiming to kill, managed to only lightly wound someone half his size?" Tristan said, turning an intense look on her.

"A terrible miracle," She said, not even trying to evade his stare. She met it squarely with one of frank weariness.

She was a riddle, a paradox. She didn't make a lot of sense either. Especially at times like this when she was pretending to be truthful.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"That you're focusing on something that doesn't matter," she shot back, fire suddenly flashing in her eyes. "We need to think about how to deal with Donatus, not bicker about a fortunate accident."

"Donatus is Arthur's problem – he was the target, not us."

"Do not pretend to be so stupid!" she gasped incredulously. "What affects Arthur affects us all!"

She had a knack for seeing right through dramatic statements. Tristan fully understood the ramifications of the situation, but he had hoped that she would be able to stop worrying about it for five minutes and think of other things. But he couldn't really say as much. She would be bound to misinterpret such words.

"So what do you suggest?" he growled. If all they could talk about was work, then they might as well get it over with.

"We must have someone spy on Donatus." She said promptly. Clearly she couldn't think about anything else.

"What?"

"It's the only way to discover what he is planning," she explained patiently. "And I have an idea of who might be a candidate."

Tristan couldn't see where this was going. "Explain." He said flatly.

"We secretly capture one of Donatus' other spies – there's bound to be more than one – and make them work for us, while still pretending to work for Donatus. They will give Donatus false information, provided by us, and we will see what the baron does with it. The spy will also observe Donatus and find out what he is really planning."

This sort of twisted, complicated idea was too much for him to handle. Why on earth had he asked to talk to her tonight? What did he want to ask her again? Suddenly Tristan felt very tired indeed, his mind already too muzzy with wine and food to start criticising the details of such a plan. "Explain it again in the morning," he grunted, sitting on the bed to begin struggling out of his boots.

Kation took the hint and began to also prepare for sleep. Once finished with brushing her teeth, she reflexively reached for the comb Tristan had bought her. She realised her mistake almost immediately, and she raised a trembling hand to touch the shorn locks before hastily putting the comb down again and clenching her hands by her sides. Her eyes, wide before, were now huge in her face in a rare show of vulnerability, glimmering as her feelings betrayed themselves.

Women. Their vanity for such things was unbelievable and ultimately pointless.

With a soft huff of private derision, he flopped back onto the bed and pondered the idea of getting the girl her own bed. She'd asked for it enough times, certainly. And the thought of being able to stretch out with a willing wench in blissful abandon was also very appealing. But it was no buxom tart that blew out the lamps and joined him a moment later, sliding under the blankets with a shiver. It was considerably colder these days and was only going to get worse. At least it hadn't started snowing yet. And suddenly the thought struck him: what on earth would he do with her if he did decide to spend the night with a real woman?

No. He'd deal with that problem if it ever occurred – not waste time worrying about it now. But another thing was nagging at him.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Mm?"

"What are you thinking about?" he whispered.

She paused and then took a deep breath. "It's not important," she muttered. "Just how we might secretly catch one of Donatus' spies."

Honestly, did the girl _never_ quit?

Suddenly, he felt the urge to return to the tavern and pick up a woman. He was far too tense, and the girl's single-mindedness only served to strengthen his own anxieties about her involvement. He needed to forget – even just for a few moments. But not tonight. He would beg a favour off Gawain or Kahedin and arrange for the girl to sleep in their room. Or perhaps the hayloft in the stables… "Just go to sleep," he sighed, without any bite in his voice.

"Good night then," she said softly. And with that, the conversation was over.

He was woken the next morning by a warmth against his side. A pair of slender, smooth arms wrapped around his waist and arm and soft puffs of slightly cool breath tickled the skin over his collarbone. The feeling was quite nice.

Opening one eye a fraction, he saw it was the girl. Odd. He was entirely unsure about his feelings on the situation. No one had turned to him like this. Ever. Even the whores he had used knew better than to hang around and cuddle him after they had done their job. What should he do? Go back to sleep? Kick her out of bed? How could he sleep when someone was (albeit unconsciously) seeking comfortfrom _him _of all people? This was not his area of expertise.

He lay like that for what felt like a small eternity, trapped between the unexpectedly pleasant sensation and a more practical urge to carefully roll out of her grasp and then flee the island.

Just as he was entertaining this thought, pale grey eyes snapped open and she instantly realised what she was doing. With a startled yelp, she jerked away and rolled off the bed. "Ow…"

Suppressing his amusement, Tristan rolled to the edge and peered down at her. "Good morning," he had never wished anyone a 'good morning' before – but in this case he was willing to make an exception.

"Fuck off."

Never mind how the rest of the day turned out – this was payment enough for what he had been forced to endure before she woke up.

But as she slowly pushed herself up, off the cold floor, she didn't look particularly angry. She looked embarrassed, her eyes darting to anywhere but the bed. She also looked, if possible, even more tired than she had last night. "Get up – we have much to do." She said, her voice clipped and slightly higher than normal.

He didn't respond verbally, but did indeed climb out of bed, stretching and yawning.

"So… what now, oh mistress of conspiracy?" he asked sarcastically – as if this was all somehow Kation's spy-hunt, rather than Arthur's mission.

"Oh ha-ha… very amusing." She said flatly. "If you must know, I think I have a way to catch our spy."

"Oh?"

She gave him a sly smile, her earlier chagrin forgotten. "I'll explain it on the way to breakfast."

Tristan really didn't like that expression, in fact, he was swiftly learning to dread it.

* * *

KAHEDIN: 

He saw Tristan and Kation marching into the tavern, slightly late for breakfast. Tristan looked his usual blank-faced surly self, but Kation looked open and confident, taking long strides and gazing about in a direct, gauging manner. When she caught sight of him, she grabbed Tristan's sleeve and dragged him over to where Kahedin was sitting.

Kahedin marvelled at her hold over him. He was so tolerant of her every liberty with his person or feelings. Always throwing light-hearted insults his way or casually, unthinkingly shoving at him, pushing him out of her way. And he just put up with it! If _anyone_ dared trying even a fraction of what she did, they would be gutted before they could form an apology.

"Morning!" She chirruped, stealing the apple from his plate and, without looking, tossed it over her shoulder to Tristan who deftly snatched it out of the air and took a bite.

Such a pair they made, even if they didn't know it.

"What do you want?" he asked, suspiciously watching his fellow scout. Tristan ambled over to the food and prepared breakfast for both himself and Kation, who was still leaning over the table, staring at him hard.

"I need a favour."

Why didn't he like the sound of that?

Noticing his doubtful expression, Kation smiled and sat down. "Don't worry – it's nothing sinister. I just need you to be at the tavern tonight."

"And…?"

"I need you to drink a lot and flirt outrageously with the girls."

"All of which I was planning to do anyway," Kahedin confirmed.

"Maybe Gawain and the twins can help too."

"Help with what, my little Ganymede?" Cador said silkily, sitting down next to the disguised girl.

"Just a little spy game," she replied, with an answering purr in her voice. This joking flirtation that they entertained would often get to the point where both Dinadan and Tristan would lose all patience and drag the cackling pair away to shout at them.

"Sounds enticing," Cador leaned into her space and looked deeply into her eyes. "What are the rules?"

"Flirt with any and all women who approach you. Try to lure them back to your beds if possible." Kation replied, leaning forward slightly in answer.

This sort of creepy double-layered conversation was just the sort of thing that unnerved Lancelot and Galahad, utterly confused Bors, and infuriated Dinadan beyond reason. Said twin sat down on the other side of Kation with a grunt of ill-humour.

"Enough, brother! It is too early for such nonsense."

"But the child proposes such an interesting game…" Cador whined, returning his attention to his food.

Dinadan gave a wordless, muted roar in response. "Flirting with harlots so that he might watch and learn the best skills?" he exclaimed incredulously. "Throw him to the she-wolves, I say."

"Thanks," Kation murmured as Tristan handed her a plate of food. "Master, care to explain what I am talking about?"

"There is a chance," Tristan said in a very soft whisper, so quiet that all three knights had to lean in close to hear it. "That there is a spy amongst the girls who frequent the tavern. We intend to catch her, but we need bait."

"Knights," Cador breathed, a smile of anticipation spreading across his face.

"Exactly." Kation said, suddenly completely serious. "Look out for girls who only flirt with knights."

"But they _all_ flirt with us," Dinadan pointed out smugly.

"Yes, so look for the ones who reject soldiers or civilians," Tristan said. "If such a girl approaches you, be sure to keep her interested but don't sleep with her. Just keep her around all night. And don't talk about anything to do with our duties or Arthur."

"But hint at knowing something sensational." Kation advised. "If they try to wheedle the information from you, even if you move to another topic of conversation, then that's suspicious. Try to remember who she is, but don't seize her and throw her in the cells. That would spark outrage."

"You two are seriously twisted if you think that those lovely girls…" Dinadan began, but Kahedin interrupted.

"No, it makes sense. Conversation with a bed-partner is unguarded – and many men speak freely around those women, thinking that they know little and are even less interested in learning more."

"So can I rely on you to do this tonight?" Tristan asked seriously.

"Of course," Dinadan said stoutly. "Although I understand why you are not able to join in," he cut a sideways glance to Kation, who rolled her eyes and shook her head.

Usually, Tristan would retort with something like: 'Stuff it up a bullock.' But that morning he only silently sipped at his drink and stared down at his plate. The change in mood signalled how seriously he was taking this, and everyone wisely applied themselves to their meals, not mentioning the night's plans again. When they all dispersed to their various duties, Kation hung back to catch Vanora in a private conversation. Curious, Kahedin tried to sidle closer to eavesdrop:

"… sorry to involve you. I wouldn't if I had another choice…" Kation whispered.

"Unbelievable! You really mean that?"

"I'm not saying it for my own entertainment, Van'," was the irritable reply. "It's just that I have no idea what to do."

What was going on? Was Kation deliberately putting Bor's lover and unborn child at risk?

There was a pause as Vanora appeared to consider the (unknown) matter. "Honestly… and in the middle of a secret crisis."

"These things are rarely ever timed well – look at you," Kation said sternly. "But if they lose sight of their duties, then something has to be done."

"I agree. Now, could you help me shift some crates? I need to rearrange the winter store."

"Sure."

Kahedin followed, hopeful that they would continue to discuss the matter, but they worked in silence. Vanora was making dough while Kation reorganised boxes. For some reason, the sound of a girl grunting with the effort of shoving furniture around a room reminded Kahedin of just how long it had been since he had last heard a girl trying to get back into her dress after a night of wildly enjoyable sex with him. The thought was a sobering one. What had _happened_ to his priorities?!

And what was worse, he couldn't resolve this problem ronight because he had been enlisted for spy-hunting by Tristan.

* * *

I was really regretting this… how on earth had I let this happen?!

Somehow, I had lost that aura of 'Tristan's Property, leave me alone' that kept most people away from me. Brenna, in particular, seemed to view me as some sort of younger brother – and last night had been something of a breakthrough for her. She had cornered me in tavern's kitchen and spontaneously started chatting…

"_Hello Kation," she said cheerfully, putting the empty food dishes in a large tub that served as a washing-up 'sink'. _

_I had been studiously avoiding Tristan all day, and so had hidden in the stables, doing odd-jobs for Jols and attending to the ever-tricky Tagiytei. Now, finished for the day, I had been dismissed and decided to help Vanora in the tavern. Anything to keep out of Tristan's way. I really didn't want to be on the receiving end of his ire. It was a forlorn hope that he might have calmed down, but I clung to it nevertheless. _

"_How are you feeling?" Brenna continued, despite my silence. _

"_Well enough," I replied, still wary and not entirely friendly. After all, I was something of a paradox for poor Brenna – a foreign slave, owned by a pagan and supposedly also his lover. Oh, the horror…! I forced myself to reply in kind: "And yourself?" _

"_Oh, I am well. But… I was wondering if…" she hesitated and bit her plump lower lip anxiously. Oh, get on with it, for pity's sake! "Well, could I talk to you?" _

"_About what?" _

"_Well, it's just that I rather like…" _

_Oh. Oh no… _

"_Who is it?" I sighed, pausing in my cutting of vegetables to fix her with one of my flat stares. _

_She looked panicked at my insight. "What? But I didn't—"_

"_Believe, Brenna, it is obvious. You've been sighing an awful lot recently. And every so often you blush a little and then smile to yourself. Who do you love?" _

_She was blushing now, only this time she was a deep scarlet of embarrassment and shyness. _

"_Well… it's…" _

"_Just say it." I demanded impatiently. _

"… _Gawain…" she whispered, so softly that I almost missed it. _

_I masterfully repressed my own sigh and resumed chopping up the turnip in front of me. "And?" _

"_And – everything! He is just so kind, so handsome, so generous…" _

_Wow, someone was fan-girling big time. "Yeah, alright. I get the idea." I said hastily – I really didn't want to hear this. "So have you said anything?" _

"_I couldn't!" Brenna exclaimed. "I am not so bold… it wouldn't be right." Then she looked unbearably sad. "And I know my father would not allow it." _

_I wholeheartedly cursed patriarchal societies in my head. Women were not chattel! "Hmm," I managed – my throat tight with anger. Never mind my own feelings on romance, Brenna had a right to date whoever she wanted to! "Perhaps you ought to find ways to spend more time with him," I suggested, slyly. "Since he's so kind, perhaps you could ask him to help you around the tavern – I'm sure he'd be happy to oblige." _

"_I suppose… but what could he do?" _

"_Lift the heavy things, chop wood – it's all us men are really good for," I said with a joking grin. Brenna chuckled breathily, just the sort of noise that would make Gawain weak at the knees if she did it into his ear. But I couldn't give her 21__st__ Century dating tips… she'd look like a harlot. The world I originated from sometimes felt very, very far away… _

"_I suppose I could at least ask…" she said slowly, as if still testing the idea out in her mind. _

"_It will do no harm either way. And you must talk to him – friendly conversation. Get to know him." I added encouragingly. _

"_What would we talk about?" Brenna asked, bewildered. The idea of having casual interactions with a man was clearly daunting. _

"_Well, if you're at a loss for words then ask him questions." _

"_A-alright." She beamed at me then, and I felt deeply inadequate as a woman next to this good and truthful, beautiful creature. "Thank you, Kat, you're really very kind." _

Not a word I would usually ascribe to my personality, but in this case I could at least see why she might think that. And before we could really continue the conversation, Gawain had burst into the kitchen and whisked Brenna away for a dance.

Dreams really do come true. For the lucky few, anyway.

And so now, on top of trying to covertly quash a conspiracy I was being roped into the love-life of a very sweet girl, despite it being absolutely none of my business. It was also really unhelpful that she was targeting one of my most reliable allies – the last thing Gawain needed to do was fall in love. I knew he liked Brenna too, but now that I knew more of the story, I could see he was totally oblivious to the way she looked at him. He probably felt more for her than he realised, but without a serious push in the right direction, he'd never get anywhere.

And the thought that night weighed heavily on my mind. I would be at the tavern as a server, moving through the crowds and tables and monitoring the knights. After all, when faced with so many beautiful, willing young women, it was only natural that the men's collective willpower would shrivel up and die. Why do you think we didn't ask Lancelot to be part of the initiative?

* * *

**So what do you think? Are things moving along ok? What are your thoughts?**

**Please let me know - you all deserve medals for patiently staying with me on this... it's much larger than I anticipated. **

**~ Leraika**


	13. Chapter 13

**Hi everyone! Happy Samhain to all who are preparing for it – I'll be telling my friends ancient ghost stories all day and wearing zombie face-paint to my lectures. Sorry for my long silence – I've been neck-deep in university commitments; not to mention unnecessary and unlooked for declarations of love from unexpected quarters. But despite these irritating impediments, here it the next chapter! Progress has been made! **

**Warnings: ****Nothing in particular. Just a little bit of perversion. But I honestly think there hasn't been enough of that in this fic… **

**Disclaimers:**** Nothing recognisable from the film **_**King Arthur**_** belongs to me. The OCs, plot and wording, however, are.**

* * *

"More wine!" Dinadan roared merrily over the heads of the crowd, holding aloft his cup to signal to any server that might have failed to recognise his voice. He was certainly committing to the 'making merry' part of the mission. I had never seen him so wholeheartedly cheerful before. It was hardly his natural state. The knights had set up their 'base' in the very centre of the tavern, attracting all the attention and generating most of the noise.

Lancelot, naturally, had snagged a woman early on. She was curled up on his lap like some over-sized kitten, pawing at his chest and giggling into his ear.

But considering his prowess in every aspect of his life here, it was hardly a surprising scene. Lancelot was, quite simply, brilliant and inspiring. All the knights were very happy for him to take the role of intermediary between them and Arthur. The role suited the man, who was naturally given to charming those around him – if he hadn't been such a formidable warrior, then I would have dismissed him as someone who preferred the easy life.

I hefted another huge jug of wine and started to fight my way through the crowd, but my stature didn't help much; being so short, it meant I was jostled quite severely. Tristan was in his usual spot at the back, nursing a single cup of wine that was doubtless there simply for decoration. He was supposed to be watching the women running around the tavern – but I had noticed his eyes following me more often than not.

Honestly, did he really think I'd run into trouble now? When everyone had seen us enter together and then exchange quiet words before going our separate ways?

On my way back to the bar with an empty amphora, I felt a large hand grab my shoulder and spin me around. Alarmed, I ducked away, only to collide with someone else. Looking up, I saw a richly-dressed man grinning down at me. He was probably in his late twenties, and I could tell he was accustomed to authority, since he made no move to introduce himself.

"Hello there," he drawled, stepping closer. His friend (read: wing-man) had already retreated to a respectful distance, taking my empty amphora with him. This was supremely awkward. My eyes darted to a particular spot, but realised that I was out of Tristan's line of sight.

… Damn.

The one time I needed him to actually make good on his promise to look after me, and he isn't there.

"Um…" I mumbled, lost for words and shrinking slightly as the man took another step, closing the distance between us.

"Don't be so shy, I only want to talk to you," the man said sweetly. "Would you like some wine?"

"No thank you," I said, but my hand was grabbed and I was led back to his table. His two friends (including the amphora thief) looked at me in an overly appreciative manner, but respectfully didn't further their own agendas. Clearly I had been picked up by the leader of this little group. I stood before them, wishing that Tristan would come rescue me. But you can't rely on men. Even sober ones. So I just rallied my strength (currently in short supply) and tried to affect a haughty air.

"What's your name?" the man asked, still holding my hand. He gently ran his thumb over the back of my knuckles.

"Kation."

"A beautiful name," he purred, drawing me closer. I dug my heels in and looked around desperately.

"Look, I'm flattered, but you wouldn't be talking to me if you knew…" I started to warn, trying to pull away. But I was silenced by a much harder tug on my hand. Stumbling slightly, I fell (or more likely, was pulled) into his lap, practically straddling him. Stammering my apologies, I made to rise when I felt one of his hands – hot even through the material of my trousers – glide along the back of my thigh, trailing to the inside and heading up to—!

"Get off!" I yelped, trying to wriggle free. But the man ignored my protestations and wrapped his other arm around my waist, pulling me closer to his chest. I squirmed, trying to reach my knife, but my free arm was trapped between our bodies and he still held onto my other hand.

Several streams of swear-words tore through my brain as I struggled in that hellish embrace. The man nuzzled my throat and I shuddered in revulsion. Then I felt my 'admirer' plant a very painful love-bite onto my (now exposed!) collarbone. It hurt, I wasn't expecting it, and it made me bloody furious. With a grunt I jerked back, my glare at full capacity. I sucked in a deep breath; there was only one option left… but it was going to hurt me just as much as my assailant.

I slammed my forehead into his nose.

With a cry of pain, the man jerked away from me, his hands going to his face. Blood spurted down his front. I saw mostly great dots of colour in front of my eyes, but I managed to slide off his lap and stagger away. The crowd enveloped me and I kept low, creeping back to Tristan. My vision had cleared quickly, but my forehead ached and I was really annoyed that I'd now have to spend the whole evening avoiding that man and his friends.

When Tristan caught sight of me he didn't move from his spot, but I saw his hand tighten around the cup in his hand. I collapsed onto the small bench next to him with an annoyed sigh.

"What happened now?" he asked, grabbing my chin and turning my face so he could stare at my forehead.

"What? Oh, um… nothing really. Just some random bastard thought I'd be an easy target for sex," I said, trying to pull out of his grip. "Is there something on my face?" I asked politely.

Tristan's fingers tightened painfully and he raised his other hand to brush his fingertips across my forehead. They came back bloody.

"Ah," I said, and allowed myself to grin. Tristan let go, now certain I was not hurt. "It is not mine. I think I broke his nose." He smiled faintly and turned back to surveying the tavern at large. I knew he was still keeping half an ear turned to me in case I felt like continuing the narrative.

I didn't. Instead, knowing full-well that a normal slave would _never_ drink from his master's cup,I took a sip of the wine and got to my feet.

"Where are you going now?"

"To the records' rooms," I said, trying to scrub the rest of the blood from my forehead with the edge of my sleeve. "You seem to have everything under control, and Vanora's also on the look-out for suspicious behaviour."

"Very well." He didn't turn to look at me as he spoke, eyes still scanning the scene before him. I left without further ado.

But while sauntering through the dark streets, I heard a pair of urgent voices whispering to each other.

"… _must be soon! There is a sudden suspicion… Arthur was in the archives all day yesterday…" _

"— _and that was after they went to see Marcus in the cells. He's talked hasn't he? Got to shut him up… he was always too nervous. No courage…" _

This was more than enough to send me doubling back on silent feet to hide as close to the speakers as possible. What a victory! I silently thanked the perverted man for ruining my initial plans.

But I know you'd like to hear what else these men had to say, so I will continue:

"_But we aren't ready! There is not enough support yet and the baron has to play for time…" _

"_Bah! We are in the perfect position to strike! But will anyone listen to me?" _a derisive snort from the shorter man. He had a barrel chest and the broad hands of a workman, but his clothing was too fine and urbane for such a vocation.

"_Iustus, please do not get ahead of yourself…" _the other man sighed._ "We take our orders from the baron and must wait. Besides, the Prefect is not due to arrive for another two weeks." _

Ah, so that was the impetuous man's name. And could I suppress the grin that blossomed across my face? No, because Iustus was clearly the baron's spymaster and right hand man. What he was doing in the fort that night, I had no idea, but I sincerely wanted to capture him. He would be the perfect person to turn into my desired double-agent: a well-trusted, senior servant in the enemy household… I felt a little giddy at how useful he would be.

"_Now," _said the, as yet unnamed, man said. He was tall and thin, with clever expressive hands that darted through the air to illustrate the smallest point. _"Let's go back to the tavern. Tonight we can relax in the knowledge that Arthur and the others don't suspect yet of our plans. They are racing to catch up and will be too late. Always too late." _

On second thought, the other man seemed less emotional and more sensible. Maybe he would be a better target – being a more rational man, I could reason with him about the futility of this subterfuge. And what on earth did the Prefect have to do with this? All that I had heard and read about that man suggested he hated Arthur wholeheartedly and envied the commander's influence. But I am repeating earlier statements.

There were several beats of silence before Iustus grunted and I watched the men leave, heading for the tavern. I followed silently and stuck to the shadows, watching where they went. The audacity of their actions – calmly drinking and eating in the tavern not two tables away from the knights.

I wanted to have them both arrested that instant. But would they say anything? Information gained through torture was useless and there was no way I could persuade them to co-operate. Not when they were so sure of their success. I was wracked by indecision. To take them or not… Would we even be able to capture them both in one go? Would any of their other spies (as yet unknown to us) run back to the baron and tell him of the arrests? And if they did, then whatever they planned would certainly happen before we could prepare against it, no matter what Iustus and his friend told us.

But what if this was our only chance? What if the baron was somehow in league with the Prefect? I mentally extrapolated all the things I'd have to enact in order to mitigate the inevitable fallout.

_Think about what the knights would do, and then do the exact opposite._ I told myself.

Yes, it was worth the fallout.

I sprinted around the tavern and entered via the kitchens, unseen by all the revellers, and grabbed Brenna by the hand, dragging her to the store-room. My face must have been so serious that she did not even bother to greet me, but followed silently.

"I need you to send Tristan round to the back of the kitchens where he can meet me in private." I said in a very soft whisper.

"Why? Is something wrong?" Brenna asked. "It's not just so that you two can…"

I cut her off before she could finish that repulsive sentence. "Brenna, if it was for that then would I have asked you to fetch him?" She hesitated again and I actually shook her, my fingers tightening with tense worry around her shoulders. "This is serious and we have very little time, please just do what I ask – a lot of lives depend on it." I said desperately.

She read my face for a long (too long) moment and then nodded. I went back to the door again, resisting the urge to pace or fidget while I waited. Tristan appeared, silent and at a dignified (read: bloody slow) pace. I dashed over to him and gave him my most brilliant smile. Oh, he would be so pleased!

"What is it?" He asked, clearly my serious mood had rubbed off on Brenna and he realised its urgency. It hadn't made him move any quicker, though. Insouciant bastard.

"I know exactly who two of the baron's senior cronies are," I declared in a soft-as-feather whisper.

"We know; Iustus and the spy we already caught – Marcus."

"Marcus was hardly senior," I said, brushing aside the matter. "Shut up and listen, there's more: I also know exactly where Iustus and his colleague are."

Although I could only see half of Tristan's face – illuminated as it was by the lamplight in the kitchens – I knew he was very sceptical about all this. He was probably wondering where I had suddenly acquired this vital information.

"How?"

"I was walking back to the archives when—" but I didn't get the chance to finish that sentence because suddenly Tristan had caught me by the shoulders and propelled me back against the wall without so much as a wink of warning. He pressed his face close to mine – so close that our lips were almost touching.

Great. Was this my night to suffer harassment? I tried to kick him, but he stepped very close, bearing down over me and putting one leg between my own, effectively trapping me.

"Put your hands around me," he whispered, his green eyes boring into mine in a distinctly blank sort of way… which was odd. "We have an audience." He added, dropping one hand to my hip, while the other gently cupped the back of my neck.

Phwoar… talk about a steamy diversion. I didn't fancy Tristan (despite being able to empirically and aesthetically say that he was an extremely fine example of manly manhood), but this did push a few not-so objective buttons in my body and subconscious. I really needed a boyfriend back in the 21st Century to fixate on at a time like this… but no such luck. Therefore all that I could think was: _Oh-dear-gods-please-don't-let-him-kiss-me-please-oh-please-oh-please…_

"Right," I muttered, feeling like this was some sort of line that we were crossing. But at least we were doing so together, fully prepared for the consequences. I raised my arms and knotted my fingers into his hair.

Tristan's eyes fluttered for an instant before he refocused. "You were saying?" his face was still very close to mine.

"Um. Yeah. Uh…" I licked my lips and refocused my mind. "I was walking back to the archives when I heard two men whispering to each other about our prisoner, who they knew by name. Listening further, I realised that they were in the pay of Baron Donatus – one of them is the Iustus that our prisoner mentioned. Then, they announced their intention to go back to the tavern. I followed them and saw where they were seated, then had Brenna fetch you back here." I said all this very quickly and felt Tristan stiffen with sudden predatory tension. He began to pull away, ready to charge off and take them down single-handedly, so I gripped his hair more tightly. "No, wait!" I hissed.

"But they could leave at any second!" Tristan growled, glaring at me in a very horrible manner. I wasn't particularly fazed – not when there was so much more to lose than his immediate favour.

"No they won't – I told you, they decided to stay and make a night of it, so we have a little time. Enough to grab some of your fellow knights, those who are still sober anyway, and catch them once they leave. Again, we don't want any other spies to see us. I need to get to Donatus before they do so we can make a deal with him—_oof!_" This last part was due to Tristan slamming me against the wall, I only just managed to tuck my head in enough to prevent my scalp wound from being torn open again. If possible, I would have said he looked even angrier now.

* * *

TRISTAN: 

"You would deal with that bastard? That traitor?" he growled, furious almost beyond reason to think that she would betray him in such a way.

"Will you please stop interrupting me before I can explain?!" she hissed, pulling him close again. Her long fingers digging slightly into his scalp and sending goosebumps shuddering down his back. He _really_ needed a wench.

"They mentioned the Prefect," she continued. "So whatever is happening, it goes beyond just the baron. Don't you see? We could convince Donatus to secretly betray the Prefect and work with us. But in order to hold something over him, we need to catch Iustus and his friend first. Then we can threaten him with exposure and scandal on the basis of their confessions. He'd have everything stripped away from him if this became public. He is infinitely more useful to us alive and where he currently is, than locked in a prison without access to all that money or his contacts."

Tristan's face morphed from anger to confusion and then finally grudging admiration. "You have a terrifying mind," he said. "Let's hope it doesn't get us killed before dawn."

She flicked her eyes over his shoulder to check that their (probably oblivious) audience were still milling about. From what Tristan could hear, they showed no signs of leaving – seemingly engrossed with pissing and/or vomiting against the wall for as long as humanly possible. With a sigh the girl stared at the front of his tunic sullenly. "Have a little faith in me, if no one else." She mumbled. "As if I would lead us into an utterly hopeless situation on purpose."

And something about the way she said that reminded him of all the times Arthur had pleaded with the mutinous-looking knights about a spectacularly dangerous mission. "I do regularly thank the gods you are not Arthur." He joked.

Her mouth fell open, clearly surprised that he could find humour in this. But before they could speak again, the 'audience' of very drunk men noticed them and give a rowdy cheer.

"Give 'im a kiss!"

"Go on, mate – he's pretty!"

They grew more raucous and started to move closer. Equally discomfited, Tristan shared a glance of unanimous sentiment with the girl and they hastily stepped away from each other. Tristan slung one arm over her shoulders and tucked her against his side. He had to emphatically signal to these men that Kat was not for sharing. "Leave off," he said firmly. "We were just on our way."

The men did not seem convinced and began further demands to see them demonstrate their (presumed) feelings for each other.

Tristan, acutely aware of time slipping away, knew that something had to be done that would prevent these morons from following them and ruining everything. Who knew when Iustus would decide to leave?

He just hoped that she didn't break _his _nose after he did this. Curling his other arm around her narrow waist, he pulled her against him and dipped his head to plant a deep, searing kiss on her lips. They were soft, half-parted (no doubt in preparation to shout at him) and tasted of wine. It was hardly the epic, thunderclap moment of love's realisation. It was simply acting. But she was a good kisser, pushing back and letting her hands bury themselves into his hair again.

The whoop of approval from the men told him that his objective was complete, and he broke away, reeling from the implications of what he had done. She was going to murder him.

"Happy?" he said softly, turning back to the men and smiling in a distinctly predatory manner. Bloody stupid drunks. "And now we have things to do that I really don't want an audience for." They leered appreciatively at his insinuation, but before they could suggest anything specific he grabbed her hand and dragged her back into the tavern's kitchen.

"Nicely done," she said softly as they entered, weaving their way through the mass of cooks and servers. Having no idea what she was complimenting him about, Tristan let it go and focused on what had to be done. He sought out the only two men who were still sober: Dagonet and (very surprisingly) Arthur, who had turned up to have a quiet drink with his old friend. Quickly and quietly explaining Kation's plan and identifying the men they were after, Tristan won their co-operation and they made a very public exit, feigning drunkenness. Well, Dagonet and Arthur grinned broadly and talked in loud voices about what great friends they were. Tristan pretended to be unsteady on his feet, feigning to use the girl as a crutch.

Once out of sight, he and the girl promptly propelled themselves to opposite sides of the narrow alley where they had taken refuge. The Kat's eyes were blazing. Oh yes, she was furious. He sighed and ran a hand down his face tiredly. "I did what had to be done."

Before she could begin to retaliate (verbally or physically, at this point Tristan wasn't sure which she would favour), Dagonet intervened. "Calm down and be quiet," he said, and then turned to Arthur. "How will we catch them?"

"You will go after one while Tristan and I will go for the other," Arthur said promptly. "Kation, go fetch some rope from the stables so we can bind their arms. And some cloth to gag their mouths."

The girl nodded and disappeared up onto the roofs via a convenient rain barrel. Tristan had to admit that it was a very safe way for her to travel about the fort – she never ran into meandering men who might try to force themselves upon her, and she seemed sure-footed enough that he doubted she would lose her balance and fall.

"Does he always do that?" Arthur asked, surprised and not a little alarmed at the display.

"Yes, he will be perfectly safe." Tristan said wearily.

They stood in silence, watching all the men who left the tavern, waiting for Iustus and his friend to appear. Kation returned with a skin of water and the required items. Handing the skin of water to Arthur respectfully, she then retreated to the shadows where she apportioned out the rope and gags into two separate piles before disappearing to the rooftops once more to keep watch.

Tristan slumped against the wall, exhausted and now seriously considering how he might avoid the girl's considerable wrath. After all, she hadn't said a word to him since the kitchens. And what had that 'nicely done' been about? Had she been complimenting him on the kiss? Because it hadn't exactly been his best effort. Perhaps she had not had much experience in such things. Strangely, Tristan found himself hoping that was the case. The idea of her in the arms of a man – _any _man – made him feel distinctly unsettled.

A sudden owl hoot from the roof (not her most subtle effort) announced that their targets were on the move. Getting to his feet, he noticed Arthur and Dagonet also moving into the edges of the shadows, ready to strike. Moments later, Iustus and his comrade appeared. They seemed only lightly intoxicated but were unaware of their imminent capture. He sprang forward, Dagonet and Arthur silently following him and they hit the two men simultaneously. Tristan and Arthur both fell upon Iustus, wrestling him to the ground with well-placed kicks and punches. The other man was promptly flattened by a flying dive from Dagonet, crushing the man beneath his bulk. Kation appeared seconds later, having retrieved the ropes and gags. Both men were groaning loudly, but no one particularly cared. After being checked for weapons (three knives), bound and gagged, the prisoners were hauled to their feet and promptly marched off to the cells.

Once they were shut away, Kation, having retrieved the waterskin and taken a swig from it, offered it to Tristan. He accepted and was once again grateful for the way she would think of little things that made all the difference. Like providing water after a fight, or checking the fletches on his arrows, or stealing him freshly baked buns from the tavern kitchen when she performed an early morning raid (much to Vanora's barely concealed, yet still strangely tolerant, annoyance).

They all filed into Arthur's rooms to execute the next part of the plan.

"Right," Arthur said, looking excited. "Tristan, you and Kation ride ahead to Baron Donatus' villa and announce my arrival on the morrow. I will close the fort down after you leave, thus preventing any of Donatus' spies from escaping to warn their master. Dagonet, you stay and make sure that no one tries to assassinate the prisoners to prevent them from betraying the conspiracy. And keep an eye on the other knights – I fear they are being a little too frivolous."

After three brisk nods and a hastily written letter (for Tristan to present to the baron upon arrival), they were all off to their respective duties.

Kation made straight for the saddles and bridles of Sarakos and Tagiytei. Tristan grabbed a brush and swept any grime off the horse's backs and bellies and then they hastily tacked up.

"Fetch my sword, some water and warm cloaks – we'll have to ride through the night." Tristan said. Kation nodded and disappeared up to his room, returning with two bulging waterskins and two heavy woollen black cloaks. They also attached a bow and a quiver of arrows to each saddle – because bandits were always a possibility. After donning his cloak, Tristan slung his sword across his back and turned to see Kation struggling to pin her cloak. He walked over to her and roughly pushed the pin through the coarse material and then laid a hand over the brooch, gripping her shoulder.

What could he say? He didn't know how to articulate his appreciation of their strange… alliance? Friendship? Whatever it was, it meant a lot to him. He found that despite her secretive ways, frustratingly paradoxical behaviour, skewed loyalties and odd language, he relied on her. He was starting to trust her.

"We should go," she reminded him. He nodded and helped her up into Sarakos' saddle before mounting Tagiytei. The moment they were out of the gates, Tristan urged Tagiytei into a steady trot – it was a several miles south to Donatus' villa and they had to move quickly. The light of a full moon in a clear icy sky provided just enough light to travel by and they did not speak for a long time.

* * *

VANORA: 

She was worried. Desperately worried.

Kation had seemed so intense, so fierce just now as she pulled Brenna away to talk. What had happened? Was everyone alright? Or did it have something to do with Gawain?

Tristan's slave had told her all about that particular problem. And while they both agreed the two would make a wonderful couple, the fort (and probably Britannia itself) needed Gawain's mind to stay very firmly 'on task'. The headiness of newly realised love would utterly cloud his judgement; and so it was with grim resolution that Kation and Vanora would strive to keep them apart as much as humanly possible. It wouldn't be easy, it wouldn't be pretty, but it was for everyone's good.

_At least it won't be forever, _she thought wretchedly, her hands gliding over her enormous belly. This babe was going to be a very good runner – all the time pushing its feet against her organs (particularly her bladder!) and skin. Sometimes, especially at night, she would feel utterly nauseated by the sensation and in her very emotional state would often resort to verbally begging the child to give her peace. Something told her that it was going to be the most tremendous handful, boy or girl. Although Bors was convinced it was the former.

Her reverie was broken when Galahad walked over to her looking annoyed.

"Gawain says I'm to escort you home – Bors has been called away to help Dagonet with an errand." He said.

Vanora snorted and crossed her arms above her bump. "Even if that were so, I am not going anywhere just yet. And Brenna will be coming with us."

Brenna lived in Vanora's spare room, contributing to the upkeep of the house and taking the pressures off Vanora – she was becoming an especially vital help as the pregnancy entered its final weeks. It wouldn't be long now.

Galahad nodded and returned to the other knights. Gawain was twisted right round, listening intently to a bunch of drunken legionaries and their friends from the village. They were talking animatedly and Gawain had begun to ignore the other knights in favour of the conversation from the other table. He had grave intent written all over his slightly flushed face.

What was going on? Normally Gawain had absolutely no time for such people. That meant that their gossip held some personal interest for him. She had no excuse to go over there, but judging by the way that Gawain's already pink face was slowly turning into a very dusky red, he looked angry and ready to start a fight. But not with the men.

The people around him edged away nervously, quietly diverting their gazes and conversations elsewhere to avoid the knight's attention.

Vanora wasn't going to witness a brawl. Not in her tavern. And certainly never involving the knights. Retrieving a small, but very well-balanced pan from a shelf, she sidled closer, pretending to polish it with a rag she'd snatched from her belt.

As she drew near she heard Kahedin, the only one among them with the nerve (or perhaps stupidity), ask his friend what the matter was. "Choked on some wine?" He said jokingly, trying to pour more of that beverage into his cup. At least half of it went over the table before he hit the mark.

"No." Gawain said, his voice thick with ire. "Where's Tristan gone?"

"Left a little while ago with Arthur and Dagonet." Kahedin replied cheerfully, concentrating on setting the wine back on the table correctly. "Why? Did he steal something?"

As unlikely as that theory was, Gawain's face did denote a serious crime of some sort had recently taken place without his knowledge or sanction. Vanora felt that sinking feeling in her heart… one that boded ill for Tristan. She only hoped it had nothing to do with Kation.

"No. But I will cut off his balls for this."

* * *

**Woo! Finally a kiss! But not the kind you were expecting, I bet. Sorry to all whom I've disappointed. But this is the way it's got to be. **

**Please review and voice your displeasure/joy/indifference at this turn of events. **

**~ L. **


	14. Chapter 14

**I am so sorry this is so late! It will almost certainly be the last chapter before the New Year – I am up to my eyebrows with work (I have to write the equivalent of my entire thesis in a month). **

**No particular warnings. Just a little swearing, etc. I **_**must **_**make this more interesting.**

* * *

We had been riding in silence for hours, only stopping to answer that most private of nature's calls. Tristan set a blistering pace, which would have left me shattered if I hadn't been schooling the horses every day. Now I was silently grateful for that particular chore, as it had strengthened my muscles enormously.

And speaking of muscles… I glared ahead to the strong, straight back swaying rhythmically in time with Tagiytei's loping gait. I knew why he'd done it. The kiss. Rationally, I understood that if he hadn't planted one on me then those pissheads behind the tavern could have ruined our chances of catching the baron's henchmen.

But what should I say? At the time, I had complimented him on his decisiveness and commitment to do an uncomfortable thing under duress. But now? How did I feel? Part of me was rational, knowing that whatever else it might have been, Tristan did not fancy me. The other part of me longed to kiss him again – just to feel some human intimacy. Honestly, I was pretty lonely in this world and hadn't been kissed in a long, long time…

But although I was closest to Tristan, he wasn't exactly Mr Warm-and-Inclusive. I don't think he let anyone get near to him. To know him so well, but still feel that yawning distance was sometimes painful. I may be sarcastic, caustic and flippant, but underneath that, I was actually very fond of him. He was reliable and considerate in that grouchy, fun-vacuum, self-contained sort of way of his and I adored him for it. Perhaps if I was a little more playful, I could draw out another side of Tristan? One that smiled, perhaps… Would such efforts make him a more emotionally healthy individual? Or would I have to flee for my life? Teasing him was an automatic reflex, but inciting play? Jokes? He had made that joke about me being unlike Arthur…

Perhaps he was ticklish.

All these random thoughts swirled in my brain as I rode along, my breath fogging before me in the crisp night air.

"Fucking freezing isn't it?" I exclaimed, resorting to casual loquaciousness to release some of this blatant tension between us. And if I wanted to confront him about the kiss, now would be the perfect time.

He stiffened and turned an incredulous glance at me. Granted, I wasn't in the habit of stating the blindingly obvious. I shrugged and burrowed into my cloak. "Well it is, and I had no idea what else to say; apart from my lingering suspicion that you've never laughed properly, or ever played a game that didn't involve someone dying. Oh, and if you have a sister, she's a whore."

Tristan's eyes widened in outrage and incredulity, especially since I was now grinning broadly and clearly enjoying myself. I kicked my toes from the stirrups and swung them idly back and forth, the reins falling onto Sarakos' neck as I raised my arms above my head to stretch.

"… I have laughed." He said stuffily, wisely ignoring my final outrageous proclamation.

"Really? When?"

When he paused to consider the question, I jabbed a finger at him. "Aha! See? You had to think about it. That's not healthy. Find more joy in life – even if it's in this shitty little backwater."

"I laughed," Tristan repeated doggedly, "when I saw you had plaited Tagiytei's mane and tail after his bath. I was about to go on patrol when I saw it and I had to unravel your handiwork before leaving the stall. And then he looked like some vain noblewoman who had just curled her hair."

I grinned triumphantly. Tristan had worn a distinctly lethal expression that afternoon, ready to cut down the first person who might mention how pretty his horse looked. I was pleased to hear he had been secretly amused at my antics. If I remember correctly, it had been a gesture of petty revenge for being forced to mend one of his tunics which was more patches and stitching than the original material.

"And I also laughed when I saw you chasing, and being chased, by Jols' yearling colts in the paddock. Especially when the chestnut actually knocked you to the floor with his nose and then bounced around you as you lay there, gasping like a fish."

"Since you remember it so clearly," I said, arching my tone into one of injured dignity. "Perhaps you'd like to join me next time I feel like playing with the horses."

There was a very weighty silence for a moment as Tristan seemed to seriously consider this offer. Had I pushed him too far? After all, he was the one who had actually offered me (unverified) accounts of his mirth. "Perhaps," he said solemnly, turning his attention back to the road.

But I refused to let that be the end of the conversation – we had made such progress! "And in return I'll teach you a really fun game I learned from a friend."

"Oh really?"

I smiled. "No penalties really, just a simple test of balance. The winner steps on the other's feet."

"Sounds ridiculous."

"That is the nature of most games, you twit." I said affectionately, gathering my reins up again and slipping my toes back into the stirrups to urge Sarakos into a faster walk. Drawing level with Tristan, I leaned over and poked him in the ribs to emphasise my next point. "Cheer up."

He glared at me again. "This is serious. And as far as tonight's matters are concerned, you must be a perfect example of a slave when we reach the villa. Do not question my orders, do not make any of those sarcastic expressions when I give you said orders, do not touch me unless it is with the deepest respect, such as a gentle touch to the elbow to alert me of something. Do not slouch or fidget, or stare vacantly in all directions except the one you're supposed to be facing. Do not try to make friends with all animals you see. Especially cats."

That old list again? I rolled my eyes and tried to steer the conversation away from my conduct. "Only if you promise to not terrify everyone you encounter. Professionalism is one thing, but terrorism? Not so ingratiating. Especially with someone who considers us the enemy, whom we can at least view as a traitor to the state, and who might try to kill us in the night. Charm could save us some serious hassle."

"He wouldn't do that. Not with Arthur arriving tomorrow."

"Are you really so sure about that?" I said, giving him a sideways glance. "It would be really easy for them to make it look like bandits attacked us on the road."

"Not if they couldn't produce any evidence of bandits' corpses – it is unlikely we wouldn't kill a few in the struggle."

"Hang on, why am I being included in this fight? I'd run away."

"You wouldn't run." Tristan said. His voice was filled with a quiet confidence that left me feeling rather disgustingly humbled.

"Your faith is misplaced," I muttered, turning to look at the beautiful moonlit meadows around us. Frost hung off every stem of grass and everything seemed to be made of silver. An owl hooted shrilly in the trees as a silence settled over us once more.

"It is not a question of faith, but of trust." He said softly. How much of his pride had those words cost him? I glanced at him, but his face was inscrutable as he stared right back at me. I quelled my panic at this development and pressed my lips together, looking away again. I was stoic as could be in the face of emergencies – it was when it was quiet and personal that I found myself fumbling for something to say.

I'd brought this upon myself. I had wanted to see another side of Tristan – little did I know how utterly terrifying it was going to be. I'd rather watch him slaughter some Woads than face this thoughtful, brooding side a second longer. Especially when there was nothing to distract us from it.

To put it simply, I was at a loss. How to continue?

"And I wanted to ask," Tristan said, ignoring my awkward silence. "What did you mean by 'nicely done'?"

What? _Seriously?_

"Stop stealing my words." I said sullenly. "I was going to ask you about that." I hadn't intended to, until he'd said my line.

"Answer the question first," Tristan demanded.

Silently praying for an attack of some kind (Woads, bandits, coronaries…), I steeled myself and quickly thought of a response. "Well, it was… um…" I fought to keep the blush from my face. "Er, quick thinking. And convincing enough for them to not demand a repeat performance."

"'Convincing enough'? Then I take it you didn't enjoy it." He said.

Good grief, was he trying to make me die of shame? How thick could he be?!

"Well it wasn't real, was it?" I said defensively. "We don't love each other, so it was hardly the sort of thing I could…" I trailed off again, choked by a mixture of annoyance, embarrassment and frustration. "You can't say you liked it very much either."

His silence was all the answer I needed.

"You did?!" I shrieked, nearly falling off the horse in shock. "I don't believe this! Are you saying that you find me—?"

"No, I am saying that the kiss was enjoyable."

"Then feel free to enshrine that memory in your heart, because it will _never happen again_." I said haughtily.

"Stop overreacting," there was a trace of irritation in his voice. "Gods, I never said I wanted to bed you."

Considering our sleeping arrangements and his procrastination about sorting out a separate bed for me, I found this highly suspicious. And I was still shell-shocked from the idea that he'd enjoyed kissing me. So with that irritating thought in mind, I shot back with a fervent: "Well thank goodness for that."

He glanced at me slyly. "Are you saying that you find me unattractive?"

"No…" I said slowly – terribly afraid of where this conversation was going now. Could it possibly get any worse? "Not at all," I continued, carefully avoiding all eye-contact. "But I think it is funny that we are discussing looks and kisses while riding to a villa where we may well be killed."

"What else is there to talk about?" Tristan asked, puzzled.

"How about what we're going to do when we get there?" I said uneasily. The current topic was making me uncomfortable.

"Good idea," Tristan said, somehow getting his sex-starved brain back on task. "I suggest that we act like there is nothing wrong. As if we are utterly unaware of what he is doing. We can discuss that previous matter at a later time."

"What, we aren't finished with it?" I squawked, alarmed at the idea of yet more embarrassing chit-chat. I needed to find this man a whore and fast. Perhaps the baron could lend me one of his?

"No." He said mercilessly and with that, urged Tagiytei into a brisk canter that Sarakos leapt forward to match.

There was no opportunity for conversation after that. When we reached the gates of the villa we were greeted by a very grumpy gatekeeper who was highly doubtful about our right to be there, despite knowing exactly who Tristan was.

And our earlier argument notwithstanding, I did indeed follow Tristan's lead – climbing wearily off Sarakos and accompanying the hastily woken groom to put the horses into spare stalls. I led Tagiytei because any normal person would have been savaged, and by the time I found my way back to the villa's main vestibule, Tristan was already talking to the head of the household – the aged steward type – who was listening to my scout with a grave scepticism. I appeared, carrying our overnight bags and weapons. The old man grimaced at the belongings and then sneered at me. I just stared back owlishly and refused to let my fingers tighten around the bows I carried in one hand.

"… the baron is not to be disturbed at this time – he is a busy man and requires his rest," the man was saying, his arms crossed and his gaze disdainful, despite the fact that Tristan out-ranked him several times over and was armed to the teeth. "We will show you to our guest quarters and you may meet with him first thing in the morning, sir knight."

I, in my role as good slave, could say nothing. But Tristan, for all his paranoid cunning and keen intellect, seemed willing to let this stand. Maybe he was just tired. I knew I was, but this was no time to muck around with sleeping. Unfortunately, Tristan wasn't going to insist upon the baron being dragged from his bed and terrified witless.

"Very well." He said, jerking his head at me to indicate I should follow. As we walked along the corridors, I whispered very, very softly "Release me to fetch us some food – I can retrieve the evidence we need."

He nodded, but didn't say anything until the slave had left us outside the door to our room.

"Take one of the bigger knives. I'm not risking you again." He said gruffly, pulling the very long, broad-bladed Sarmatian knife from his pack and pushing it into my hands.

"Thanks." I stuffed it into the back of my sash and wriggled out of my cloak. It would only get in the way. I then went to the window and poked my head out, memorising where our room was in relation to the outer wall, the roof, the ground and the other windows.

"Be careful." He ordered, watching me prepare. I turned back and nodded tersely, feeling tenser by the minute. This was particularly dangerous and if I was caught… well, life wouldn't be worth returning to, even if I didn't have a choice. Tristan was looking rather worried too. There was a moment of silence as we stood there, neither saying anything. Then it broke and I turned away, opening the door a fraction to make sure the coast was clear. Tristan walked up to stand behind me – I knew he would close and lock the door as soon as I left. I slid through the gap and listened intently, not moving away until I was absolutely sure. Tristan's hand landed on my shoulder and I turned to look back, puzzled. But his face was unreadable as he gently pushed me forward and shut the door.

As I walked silently through the house, I heard the steward talking to an older woman who was probably the baroness' major-domo.

"… I've heard the rumours. Who could not? Honestly, just because that knight asserts his chastity does not mean he deserves respect. Did you see the way his slave walks? The boy swings his hips just like those tarts that are brought back from Eboracum." The steward sneered.

"Perhaps it is his natural gait. Or maybe he is sore from riding a horse through the night." The woman said primly. "And unless you have witnessed such immoral behaviour yourself, you would do wise to keep silent. Of all the knights to antagonise, Tristan is not one to attract attention from."

_Smart woman,_ I thought as I tip-toed past, leaving the horrible talk with a mental shrug – after all, people love slander so long as it doesn't touch them.

I eventually found the baron's office and was astonished to find it was unlocked. I checked to make sure I had an alternative exit to the door before entering. My choices were the chimney or the window. Both good options. The lamps had been extinguished for the night, so I fetch a handheld lamp from the table and lit it from a bracket lamp in the hall beyond. Then I settled down to silently pore over every scrap of writing I could lay my hands on.

Mostly, it was boring agricultural reports and the like – but then I found a stack of correspondence. Several people were writing to the baron concerning…

Oh holy fuck.

Just when things couldn't get any worse.

I scowled and pondered where to hide all this invaluable intelligence. I couldn't carry it all with me – and the rustling of paper stashed in my clothes would ruin the element of stealth which was currently keeping me alive.

Which mean I had to hide them in this room so that no one could destroy them before Arthur's arrival. I looked around the room for options and saw a few. There was a large trunk which, once opened, revealed a cache of writing equipment thrown in atop some old tunics and cloaks. Perfect. Pulling all these things out, I moved all incriminating documents to the bottom of the trunk and then piled everything back in. Now, part two of my ingeniously evil plan…

I went to the window and looked about. I was on the second first floor, same as the guest room, but by my calculation, I was now on the other side of the house. After finishing here, I'd have to climb up onto the roof and cross the slick tiles back to our room and then hope to hell Tristan hadn't already closed the shutters. Then I went back to the door and barricaded it shut, using every piece of furniture I could move – including the cabinet, the table and even the trunk I had hidden the papers in.

That should buy us enough time, provided Arthur didn't dawdle. My mission concluded, I blew out the lamp, and climbed onto the window sill. Then I jumped for the lip of the roof and hung on by my fingers. I then carefully nudged the shutters closed with my feet and then hauled myself up, shoulders screaming with pain. After taking a moment to recover, I slithered away from the edge and then crawled on hands and knees over the sloping roof back to where Tristan waited for me… hopefully with a blanket. I was freezing!

* * *

TRISTAN: 

While Kation was gone, he laid out all the weapons on the single narrow bed – checking them over and listening for the slightest sound of trouble. He was also pretending he wasn't worried about how long she was taking. What if she had been caught?

A slithering from above announced her arrival. She was very fond of using the rooftops as her personal pathways. He stood and crossed the room to open the shutters – but as he did so, he met a slight resistance and then heard a sharp gasp.

"Shit, oh shit!" he heard her very quiet but panicky voice from beyond the shutters.

"Kat?" he whispered softly, throwing the shutters open and looking about for her.

"Down here, idiot!" hissed a voice below him.

Leaning over the lip of the window, he looked down to see her dangling by her fingertips from a small crack in the wall. She was glaring up at him and Tristan saw that there was no way she would be able to scramble back up to the window. Without a word, he turned away and retrieving a blanket off the bed, tied a knot in the corner and threw it out to her.

"Where's a rope when you need it?" she grumbled, grabbing the blanket above the knot and letting Tristan haul her up. As soon as her hands were level with the windowsill she clung to it and pulled herself into the room. Tristan seized her shoulders and pulled her in, closing the shutters. When he turned back to her, he saw that her lips were blue from the cold and she was shaking.

"So?" he asked impatiently, watching her as she pushed the weapons to one side, sat on the bed and yanked off her boots to rub some warmth back into her feet.

She shot him a warning look and pressed a finger to her lips before answering in a low voice. "Found an awful lot of damning evidence. And by that, I mean I've had to lock up the entire room from the inside. I couldn't even begin to move it all in here tonight."

"If you locked the room then how are we supposed to get to it again?"

"Through the window," she said promptly.

"And what does the evidence suggest?"

"That Baron Donatus is indeed involved in a conspiracy with the Prefect," she sighed and leaned against the wall. "And that's not the worst of it…"

"What could possibly be worse than conspiring with the Prefect?"

Kation looked weary. "Well how would you quantify conspiring with the Prefect in his scheme against Arthur, while simultaneously double-dealing with the Woads?"

That threw Tristan off-balance.

"He's _what?!" _

"_Quiet!" _she hissed, flapping her arms frantically. "Some of them might be here even now!"

"Woads here? This far from the Wall?" Tristan scoffed. "They wouldn't dare."

"Would I lie about this? They've been here – I'm sure of it." She looked angry now. "And they wouldn't be painted blue, either. From what I can tell, they are trading information and resources." Her grim expression slid to one of surprised outrage. "No wonder the man's annual crop reports are so damnably consistent!" she pulled a blanket around her shoulders and huddled into it, looking resentful.

Tristan frowned at her for a moment, but couldn't contain himself. He burst out laughing. Kation looked up at him, alarmed. "What now?"

"Of all the things…" he mumbled, shaking his head. "Crop reports… clearly they were our first clue in this sorry mess." He moved the weapons to within easy reach against the wall or on the floor and sat down on the bed beside her. "And considering how much you loathed them as well…" he chuckled again, and it earned him a sharp jab to his side.

"Oh please shut up. I'm freezing and I'm going to sleep." She didn't even bother to wriggle out of her tunic, she simply burrowed under all the blankets, still shivering, and curled into a tight ball.

Tristan watched her for a long moment, then pulled off his boots and outer garments. It would be foolish to change completely in case something happened.

"So they could be anywhere," he muttered as he carefully arranged his sword to be within reaching distance by the girl's head.

She gave a muffled moan and rolled onto her back, one arm tossed over her eyes. "And look like anyone, especially since the baron is helping them to hide." She sighed.

"Then we truly are surrounded by enemies," he remarked. "Now move over, I shall take first watch." He nudged gently at her side. She grumbled and rolled over to the far end, taking all the blankets with her. Tristan sighed and sat at the foot of the bed, arranging the weapons so that they were close at hand. Kation had done enough for the moment and would rest.

* * *

GAWAIN: 

He asked Arthur if he could accompany his commanding officer to the baron's villa the next morning.

Alright, that wasn't strictly true. He insisted that he had to go, regardless of anything else that was going on. Conspiracies, insurgents, spies and murderers hardly registered as bad things compared to the thought of Tristan taking advantage of a girl he now firmly believed to be his responsibility. The scout was a man of honour, but Gawain was certain that there was more to those two's loaded looks and meaningful glances than just nefarious conspiracy.

But now he had it on authority that Tristan had been seen kissing Kat'. His little kitten was in the clutches of a man who had finally succumbed to his baser instincts!

Clearly it was Gawain's solemn duty to castrate him.

Honestly, of all the men who might have harassed Kat, he hadn't thought Tristan would have been foolish enough to do so. That girl had a pretty ferocious mind and tongue. But she wasn't strong enough to fend him off for long – he had to rescue her! Who knew what she had suffered already?!

"Arthur, you don't understand! They're in danger!" Gawain exclaimed, leaning halfway over Arthur's desk as his leader clipped his cloak onto his breastplate.

"From what?" Arthur asked, far too mildly.

"The baron!" And each other. He didn't vocalise the latter, knowing that Arthur wouldn't understand.

Lancelot, Dagonet and Kahedin were watching this exchange with interest. But they didn't bother interfering. The horses were ready and they were about to ride out – but a still mildly-intoxicated Gawain was demanding to go too. And that was funny enough to warrant observation. Gawain could have strangled the lot of them.

"Oh let him come," Dagonet said gently. "Otherwise he'll just fret and drive everyone mad." Lancelot was going to be left in charge and didn't need anything to exacerbate his hangover.

"Very well… be ready to ride out with us in an instant." Arthur said sternly.

Gawain straightened, grinned in a particularly savage way, and sprinted out. By the time the others joined him, he was hopping from foot to foot with impatience.

Lancelot, still a little grey from the aftereffects of his merry-making the previous evening, watched stood by Arthur's horse Glaucus as the knights prepared to leave. "A little drunken bird seems to have told Gawain something the rest of us already knew." He said happily.

"What do you mean?" Dagonet asked as he climbed onto his horse.

"He means," Kahedin said, taking up the tale, "that Tristan was seen kissing his slave and it's about time too."

Arthur's face darkened but he said nothing. And then, muttering something about 'last hopes', led his men from the stables as Lancelot waved cheerfully and then disappeared back to the tavern for some breakfast.

Boiling with fury, Gawain gripped the reins tightly and wished he could gallop the whole way to the baron's villa. And when he saw Tristan he would bury his axe in that man's—

"Plotting murder then?" a voice broke his reverie and he twisted violently in his saddle to see Kahedin grinning at him.

"You can sod off."

"I don't know why you're so upset – it's not like he's your brother. Otherwise I'd be on your side."

"That's not the point and you know it!" Gawain seethed. "_He_," and he spat the word sarcastically, "might as well be – don't deny that we have a duty of care!"

Kahedin looked away his expression thoughtful, and then he nodded solemnly. "I know what you mean. I know he is Tristan's, but he is just so… _vulnerable_. And that bastard doesn't seem to care for him. Granted our friend was worried _about_ him after the attack, but did he do anything to protect Kat? No, he had us do it."

Gawain thought he sounded resentful. "It shows us how much he trusts us," he argued. "After all, can you imagine Kat being left in Bors' care?"

Kahedin shuddered. "Or worse: Gaheris."

Gawain could not disagree with that. The man was not one to care for others even under duress.

Their journey was incident free but breathtakingly fast, so Arthur arrived at the baron's villa in very good time. Clearly Tristan's arrival had put the wind up their quarry, because the baron greeted them in person. He was tall and had once been powerfully built, but the muscle had gone slightly soft. But doubtless the man was still capable of fighting.

"Ah! Arthur Castus, I bid you welcome!" he said amiably, every inch the happy host. "Your knight arrived very late last night; I do not believe he has even risen yet—"

But as he spoke, Tristan strode into the doorway. He was heavily armed; even his sword was slung over his back. This was so unusual that Arthur and the knights tensed. Tristan was communicating silently that there was trouble afoot. And, completely ignoring his host and commander, addressed his fellow Sarmatians in their own language. _"We have serious trouble. Why aren't there more men?" _

"_They are on their way,"_ Dagonet said. _"Why?"_

"_Where's Kat? What have you done to him?!"_ Gawain hissed, leaning down in the saddle to glare horribly at the scout.

Tristan frowned back up at him. _"In the baron's records room – guarding the evidence. He has barricaded himself in and will whistle if the room is attacked." _

"_Oh that's a fine thing!" _Kahedin laughed bitterly. _"The boy will be dead before Gawain has a chance to save him from you." _

Tristan, looking bewildered, shot Dagonet a quizzing look. The giant warrior shrugged and smiled slightly. _"Your romantic drama lad, not mine." _

"_What?" _Tristan hissed, even more bewildered.

Gawain, his patience snapping, let out a muted roar and physically hurled himself at Tristan, diving from the saddle his hands outstretched to grasp the scout about the throat. But Tristan neatly side-stepped the attack with a disapproving set to his mouth.

Kahedin and Dagonet stifled their smiles, but Kahedin couldn't help but remark something in Latin: "That's one way to dismount."

Arthur, who had been explaining a need to speak to the baron in private, turned to stare in astonishment at his knights' behaviour. But he relaxed marginally, since Dagonet and Kahedin had also dismounted and were leading their horses away to the stables with Tristan, chattering away in their own, incomprehensible language. Perhaps things were not so dire as Tristan was leading him to believe.

* * *

**So, hugest apologies and lots of festive love to the dedicated readers – please review (TAKE THE HINT, IT'S CHRISTMAS!) and leave a little constructive feedback. **

**~ L. **


	15. Chapter 15

**Hello devoted followers and new people! Welcome aboard! **

**This has grown into a disproportionally large and lunatic monster-fic—I am deeply touched and flattered by the feedback from the readers out there who took the time to leave a note. You know who you are, so I won't bother to list all you lovely people here.  
*Pauses, as realisation hits*  
If you're even reading this, that is. I suspect a great portion of you have simply skipped down to the narrative, since it's so late in coming. **

**Disclaimers: ****I don't own it—only the OCs and the narrative.**

* * *

I must say that I felt safe(ish) with Tristan standing guard while I slept. But when Tristan woke me, I hadn't realised a newfound confidence in my slumber. It would seem that I had gravitated to Tristan's warmth and pushed my frozen toes against his legs; and thus I opened my eyes and felt something warm on my leg.

Squirming, I sat up and looked around, blinking in the gloom. It was still before dawn and Tristan was watching me keenly.

"Time to go?" I asked. He nodded. "I'll go back to the evidence and guard it," I hopped off the bed (a little stiffly) and hunted about for my boots.

"I will go down to speak with the baron and tell him of Arthur's arrival." He said behind me. I saw flashes of the weapons being picked up and reattached to his person out of the corner of my eye. Smart move.

"Whistle through your fingers from the window if anyone tries to force their way into the room." He said sternly.

"And if it's you, you'll speak in Sarmatian as a safe-code," I said. He nodded and then handed me the large Sarmatian dagger again – it was almost as long as my forearm. The sight of the weapon prompted me to say something else. "Look, if anything happens to me—"

"Nothing will happen to you," he said fiercely, stepping closer to me.

"Just so," I said calmly as I re-tied my sash and buckled the belt over it, attaching the knife's sheath harness to my right hip. "But _if_ something happens to me, I've hidden the documents in a large wooden trunk. It's got brass strapping and no lock. They're hidden underneath spare writing materials and some musty old cloaks and tunics."

He was now right in my personal space and grabbed my chin, forcing my face upwards. "Kat!" he said urgently, trying to communicate so much in that one word. I succumbed to temptation and reached up to touch the hand that was holding me steady.

"I'll be fine. And don't worry – I'll be on the roof and shrieking my head off before they manage to break the door down." I smiled, but it was strained. We both knew how much was at stake. Unwilling or unable to articulate the emotions blazing in his green eyes, he let his hand fall and he turned away, shoulders stiff with tension. I sighed and climbed out the window. If he couldn't say it, then I wouldn't force it out of him. The climb was uneventful and I was soon in the baron's 'office'. I was lucky that the fire had not completely died, and I was able to persuade the half-charred log to smoulder and catch as I puffed furiously. Soon enough, a small fire was blazing away and I was crouched by it, warming my frozen fingers. And as I watched from a gap in the shutters, dawn slowly came to the land – bathing everything in the pale grey light of a lightly overcast winter day. It was a profoundly boring wait – I was the wrong side of the property to see Arthur arrive. I barely heard them either.

So I had a long, hungry wait until someone knocked on the door. I went and stood by the frame, listening for even one word of Sarmatian.

Nothing. Just silence.

I backed away and drew my knife. It came free with a smooth, metallic hiss as I felt my blood crystallise in my veins. Finally, I'd have a fight on my hands.

It was exhilarating and also bloody terrifying.

The knocking came again; an insistent tapping that grew in strength. I backed away and stuck my head out of the window. Where was Tristan? He was supposed to fetch me and the documents! I was tempted to whistle, but that would alert the people outside the room that there was an intruder in their lord's private room.

So, keeping silent, I went back to the door and listened intently for any clue as to the person's identity.

Then more knocking—or rather, pushing and slamming of (undoubtedly broad) shoulders—against the heavy wood door. I knew the barricade would hold for a good while longer, but it wouldn't hurt to alert Tristan nonetheless. Surely they could spare someone to guard my door and documents? I went back to the window and stuck my head out to look for the troops.

Nothing. Not even a cohort.

Still, we came for evidence and to offer the scumbag a deal he couldn't refuse. And everything was happening without me! I know I wasn't the heroine of this piece – I was an embarrassing footnote. However this really was my brainchild – why couldn't I see it through personally? I was playing a very important part, nonetheless, so I stuck my thumb and forefinger in my mouth and let out a loud, piercing whistle for as long as I possibly could. It was a very good effort and I was insanely pleased that I had succeeded first time.

Mostly because I knew that my whistle would alert those outside the office that I was sending someone a signal. It came as no surprise when the shoving and pounding on the wood became even more powerful. I really wished that I'd thought to bring my bow and arrows with me.

* * *

TRISTAN: 

He heard Kation's shrill whistle and felt all the hairs stand up on the back of his neck as his fellow knights turned to glare at him in the gloom of the stables. If looks could kill, Dagonet's alone would have skewered him like a pig on a spit. And Gawain's was too terrifying to describe. Without a word, they all sprinted back to the courtyard. Tristan went on into the villa with Kahedin at his heels, as Gawain and Dagonet stayed by Arthur.

"I'm going to murder them, I'll throttle the brat and then I'm going to _eviscerate_ you!" Kahedin growled at his back. Tristan ignored his mutterings and redoubled his pace, taking the steps two—three at a time. He heard a pounding from deep in the house, filling him with dread, and he drew a knife as it would be too narrow in the corridor to wield his sword. They skidded around the final corner to see three men trying to open the door, but they seemed to be having some difficulty and it was only open a hand's span. When they saw the knights, two of them brandished their knives and leapt forward, not hesitating in their attack.

Tristan caught the first one's charge with his usual deft skill. Stepping in close, he dodged the knife being swung at his face, caught the man's wrist and then drove his own blade up under the man's chin, almost through his throat. The man gurgled and immediately went limp as blood poured from the wound. The knife was slippery in his grasp, but Tristan felt it was safe to let the man fall. No one could survive that.

Kahedin had dispatched with his own opponent in a similarly efficient (if messier) fashion and gave a shout as the third man wriggled through the door. But as they had forced their way inside, the third man was stumbling back with Tristan's long-knife in his shoulder. Tristan dove after him and stabbed him in the throat. Once he was sure the man wouldn't get up again, he turned to stare at the would-be murderess, who standing across the room. She looked altogether too pleased with herself.

"I would _never_ have said that knife was good for flinging at someone." She said with a rather feral grin, walking over to them and completely ignoring the dying man. Tristan caught her by the shoulders and stared down into her face.

"Are you alright?" he said quietly.

"I'm really hungry," she admitted, looking a bit embarrassed. He felt a smile tugging at his lips, but the scowl won the battle and he shook her.

"I thought you said you'd climb onto the roof again," he said accusingly.

She looked away guiltily and then caught sight of Kahedin who let out an animal growl.

"You!" he stomped over to them and violently shoving Tristan away so he could engulf her in a tight hug. "Don't you ever, _ever _run off with that abominable man again! I mean it, we're going to have serious words—no girl of mine will go gallivanting about the country suppressing insurgency the way you do—!"

She cut him off by freeing one arm just enough to clap it over his mouth. "I'm not your girl," she said with mirth clear in her face. "And if you make it back to Sarmatia you'll probably live in the greater fear of Lancelot's sons seducing your daughters."

Kahedin gave a little choked laugh and hugged her to him again. "Oh Kitten – I can't tell you how worried I've been," he exclaimed. "This is not something a maiden should be involved in!"

She squirmed out of his hold with a smile that was considerably more grim. "Honestly, Kahedin; this is what I am good at. This is what I do." She said simply. Tristan, meanwhile, had been expecting hysterics, tears and screams as she realised the full horror of putting a blade into someone. If that had been the case, she would have clung to Kahedin or himself for reassurance. But from this casual admission, it was obvious to surmise that she had done some fighting before; perhaps on more than one occasion. Then she said something to break him from his momentary reverie.

"Well, since you're here I suggest we secure the chest and take it to Arthur," she said. "And where are the troops? This is serious, Kahedin – we need a lot more men." She exchanged a look of weary exasperation with Tristan. It really was ridiculous.

"Why? I thought we didn't want to alert the Prefect."

"We don't, but when it comes to Woads, you don't take changes." Tristan explained.

Kahedin looked thoroughly bewildered. "What have Woads got to do with it?"

Kation, who had retrieved the knife and was cleaning it on a corner of the dead man's tunic, snarled and spat a word that could only have been a curse, but neither Sarmatian understood it. "You haven't told them?"

Tristan shook his head. "There was no time between their arrival, stabling the horses and your signal," he said.

"Fine," she sighed and flung open one of the chests. Then she began to pull out some cloaks and writing equipment until she uncovered a pile of records and correspondence. With a single, satisfied glance, she slammed the lid shut again and got to her feet. "Sufficed to say that the baron has been conspiring with two very different sorts of people recently," she kicked the trunk. "And this is the proof which we need to take to Arthur – he'll need all the help he can get."

"Then we must hide these," Tristan gestured to the bodies. They quickly dragged the other corpses into the room, and shut the door again. Then Kahedin and Kation carried the trunk back to the courtyard, where Arthur was talking privately to the baron while Dagonet and Gawain stared forbiddingly at Donatus' men. Upon seeing the scouts' return with slave and luggage, Dagonet looked puzzled – the tinge of relief in his eyes telling Tristan that the negotiations hadn't been as smooth as they would have liked. But when Gawain saw them, his face contorted in a silent snarl and he charged Tristan once more. Tristan didn't draw his sword (much as he'd have liked to), but braced himself for the impact – doubtless Gawain would knock him to the ground before landing a few solid punches. But it was not to be, for the destruction-bent knight was stopped in his headlong charge by Kation tackling him to the ground. They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, but Gawain was driven by an extraordinary rage, and climbed back onto his feet, dragging the girl up with him by her collar.

"_Don't you ever do that again!" _he snarled in Sarmatian, shaking her violently. _"You are taking stupid risks and I won't have it! You could have been killed! What's more… oh Gods Kat, you're like a sister to me – __how__ can I give my blessing if you choose to throw your lot in with __him__?!"_ he jabbed a finger at Tristan, who felt a little insulted. Despite not being entirely sure of what Gawain was ranting about, he had a good idea that it involved some sort of romantic delusion.

Kation, whose grasp of Sarmatian was suspiciously good (Tristan suspected she knew more than she let on), looked only momentarily confused. Then she glanced between Kahedin and Gawain (both wearing identical glares) before sighing. "Enough," she whispered. "I was never in danger – I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. What's more, Tristan and I are—" But exactly what she was going to say they'd never know, because at that precise moment, Arthur called Dagonet over to guard the seething baron while he consulted Tristan. The other knights resumed their previous stance – acting as a buffer between the baron's surly men and their leader. Only Kation remained by him, and even she moved away to sit on the trunk of evidence.

"Well?" Arthur said, stepping close. Tristan sighed and wondered where to begin. What would make sense? Kation overhearing the conspirators, he supposed. But Arthur needed the facts as they stood. So he just spoke in an undertone. Little, easy to remember phrases.

"The baron's conspiring with the Prefect – over what exactly I don't know. Kation might. What makes this complicated is that he is also aiding the Woads in their resistance. Again, the details are not clear. It is all in the documents in that trunk," he pointed to the girl's improvised seat. Arthur let his eyes flicker to the trunk for a second, his face carefully expressionless. But those green-grey were like a stormy sea that promised doom for those who had crossed him. Tristan wasn't worried; Arthur's idea of retribution was a light flogging followed by much penitent reflection of the soul in a very uncomfortable jail cell. Where Tristan came from, such misdeeds would have earned the conspirators nothing more than a swift execution. He could almost hear Arthur thinking. "We offer him a deal," Tristan prompted. Kation had been very emphatic about that. "He will work exclusively for you and cease all sincere commitment to the Prefect and Woads. But he will still pretend to feed them false information and report their plots to us."

Arthur nodded and walked back to the baron to present his offer: loyalty or a public scandal followed by confiscation of all his property and assets. Meanwhile, Tristan sidled over to the girl, who had drawn one leg up to her chest and resting her chin on her arms which she had folded atop her knee.

"I am ready to fall asleep right here," she murmured, not looking at him but instead keeping her eyes fixed on the stand-off between the knights and the baron's men. "How much longer are we going to be waiting?"

"No idea. Depends if the baron's feeling reasonable," Tristan grunted, edging close enough to lay a hand on the girl's shoulder. "That was a very impressive thing you did in the room," he added softly. "Weren't you afraid?"

"Absolutely," she said. "I was terrified it wouldn't work."

"I'm glad it did." And he meant it. She had become a large part of his life in a very short space of time.

"So am I," she sighed, and succumbed to a small yawn. He was tempted to rest his hand on her head and ruffle her (already thoroughly dishevelled) hair, but held back. It was far too soon after their little act behind the tavern and he strongly suspected that she was armed with more than just his long knife. And so they waited while Arthur and the baron talked in quiet measured tones that prevented anyone from overhearing their conversation.

Eventually, the baron nodded and gripped Arthur's forearm; upon seeing it, both sides let out sighs of relief. Everyone had become bored of standing around glaring at each other.

* * *

Despite the extremely stressful times that had just passed, the rest of the day went surprisingly well. No one had thought to mention the men we had killed in the baron's villa, and there was no question of us leaving the papers with him. But with his life and reputation on the line, Donatus couldn't have been more helpful. He provided us with two large sacks to carry the documents in and watched with a look of abject misery as we emptied the papers and tablets into them before closing them up and leaving them by my feet. We would be leaving shortly, risking the chance of a back-up plan by the baron and his little blue friends.

I went to saddle the horses with Gawain, taking our blackmail material with us. Tristan had stayed with Arthur and I was sure he was keeping a wary eye on things.

"So…" Gawain growled. "What exactly happened last night?"

I sighed and sat down on a low stool. "Leave it alone," I mumbled, resting my head in my hands. "I am exhausted."

"Not until you tell me if you kissed Tristan last night." He insisted stubbornly.

Gawain's strange behaviour was not worth trying to comprehend at this moment, so I simply glared at him. "Yes, we did—but not for the reasons you suspect." I proceeded to explain myself, but Gawain still seemed suspicious.

"And that's it?" he asked.

"Yes. Now stop being such an over-protective matron and help me saddle the horses." I said, turned back to tack up Tagiytei, who was starting to get impatient.

"Hmph," Gawain muttered under his breath and turned back to the other horses. Since I knew just how merry he had been in the tavern the previous night, I simply smiled blandly into his bloodshot eyes before returning my attention to our task. By the time the others joined us, we were almost completely ready to go. After retrieving Tristan's things from the room we had stayed in, we mounted up and rode out, promising to return in a few days' time to settle matters properly.

I rode beside Tristan, keeping my eyes fixed on the horizon and not looking at the men who sullenly watched us depart. All I could think of was getting back to the fort and going to sleep all day in some quiet corner where no one could find me.

The ride was uneventful. Tristan urged Tagiytei up to ride beside Arthur and recount the whole night in detail, also mentioning the men who attacked us when we retrieved the documents. Arthur listened attentively and I kept my eyes scanning our surroundings for any trouble. I knew I wasn't the only one, but I didn't feel safe. Not by a long shot.

We arrived back in the fort and were met by Jols and Lancelot, who reported a quiet day and nothing extraordinary. The spies that we'd captured had been gagged and secured from all harm and risk. Arthur gave the others their orders (resumption of the usual daily routine) and was now looking at Tristan and me with something bordering on concern. "Take a couple of days rest, but be ready if I have dire need of you," he said kindly. I almost sagged with relief as we all moved the horses to the stables.

Jols, Amandus and Mato leapt to help us and when Mato threw me a concerned look and asked if I was alright, I nearly hugged him. But then Tristan appeared and dragged me out of the stable and propelled me up to his room. He looked as shattered as I felt; but I was so disgustingly grimy, I knew that I needed a quick bath more urgently than sleep.

When I mentioned this to Tristan, he shrugged. "Do what you like," he muttered. "I am going to the baths myself, if you wish to accompany me then feel free to do so."

I did as he suggested and we left to enjoy the creature comforts of the fort. Tristan bathed first, not bothering to argue about the matter and simply stripping down to his skin before sinking into the cold pool to wash. It was fed directly by the river and therefore had a slight current running through it which aided in keeping the water clean. As soon as he was clean, he went to soak in the hot pool while waiting for me. When he was gone, I stripped and slid into the water, gasping from the shock of the cold, but determined to be clean before crawling into bed. As I scrubbed at my hands and face, I knew that these two days of reprieve were going to be blissful…

By the time we had finished our ablutions and dressed in clean clothes the sun was starting to set. I was feeling far too awake from the heady mixture of a freezing cold bath and the frigid air. It would be mid-winter soon.

"We should take Galahad hunting tomorrow," Tristan said suddenly as we walked across an empty courtyard. "The boy needs to learn how to handle a horse in heavy cover."

"He hasn't been allowed many freedoms beyond the fort has he?" I mused.

"Indeed not, he's still far too young and we do not risk our children in war."

I smiled at the idea that the knights (in their own gruff way) saw Galahad as a younger brother who needed a watchful eye constantly upon him and the occasional cuff round the ear. "Very true," was all I said. "But you forget that my hunting experience has simply been as spear-bearer to Gawain."

"Can you fire a bow?" he asked.

"Not from a horse," I said.

"It's easy enough—I'll teach you sometime."

This sounded ominous, but I didn't comment apart thanking him for such a seemingly pointless use of his free time.

"Oh it'll be useful…" he drawled, and I really hated the way he said that—it sounded like he had a plan that I wouldn't like, but nevertheless be forced to participate in. It would certainly concern something a great deal more serious than recreational hunting.

We entered our room and I hurled the laundry into its usual corner before making a beeline for the bed. Tristan followed suit and we crashed onto the mattress almost simultaneously.

"Why can't I just have my own bed?" I grumbled.

"Because I can't afford it," he said, tugging off his boots and curling up on his side. "Go sleep in Gawain's if you like."

"Fine," I snapped, not caring for a petty argument. I got up and stomped out, wishing that Tristan would just oblige me this one favour.

Gawain's room was messier than Tristan's, but that was only because I sought to keep it clean. I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.

* * *

**So… thoughts? I know it's not the longest chapter in the world, but hopefully it'll keep you keen for more. **

**Best wishes to all,  
~L. **


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